Along came a spider
by nonyvole
Summary: Natasha wanted out. Clint had ideas. Trust-verse. Clintasha.
1. Chapter 1

Welcome to the playground, Natasha. Marvel Universe isn't mine. Set in my Trust-verse.

* * *

Natasha Romanoff was slipping through the shadows, keeping a careful eye around her. She thought that she had seen a man running along rooftops; she wasn't sure if he was following her or not. She also wasn't sure if she was pleased by the situation, or if she should be fearful for her life.

Darting into a store, she pretended to browse, keeping an eye on the entrance. She shook her head no at the assistant who scurried up, asking if she needed any help. Taking a look at the clock, she realized that she needed to make her meet, and just had enough time. She went out the back, and returned to the street by the alleyway.

She was being followed, she was sure of that. The only question now was by who, and why. Red Room...they liked to follow at random times. SHIELD...she could just see her unmarked grave right now. Natasha did the only thing she could think of, by stopping, turning slowly until she was facing where she thought the watcher was, and held up one hand, middle finger extended. Good. She'd either be yelled at or killed, and at this point in time, either was preferable, because she'd be feeling something or be dead. There, she saw her rendezvous. Reaching into her pocket, she palmed the disc, and as she walked by, she pretended to stumble into him, and slid the disc into his pocket. Allowing her stumble to turn into a fall, she swore, cursing at her shoes, the sidewalk, the street, and how crowded everything was. Sensing more than seeing her target moving off, Natasha stood up, brushing down her clothing, and thanking the stranger who was helping her.

"No problem," he said in English, making Natasha's stomach drop. She took a slightly longer look at the man; he wasn't one that she could remember from Red Room's files, but she would take a look when she returned to base.

The man wasn't in the files, so it was possible that he was a tourist, but Natasha filed a report anyways. She also reported being followed, receiving a nod in response, which didn't tell her anything, not that they would.

Returning to her assigned room, she slumped on her bed, letting out a long breath. Tomorrow she would get her next mission, tomorrow she'd go off again into the streets to prepare, but for tonight she could just sleep in safety.

"Clint." His name made Clint Barton jump, and turn to look at Coulson. "It's confirmed, she's here." Coulson smiled slightly. "Good spotting."

"Thanks." Clint nodded absentmindedly, going back to look over his laptop. "You know, I don't think she's happy."

"Why do you say that?"

"Take a look at her last few kills – they're practically invitations to the local police that she _wants_ to be caught. I let her see me today, too, a couple times. All she did was give me the finger. Plus,"

"Barton," Coulson warned, interrupting Clint, "we're not here to analyze her, we're here to take out somebody who has been a rather big thorn in SHIELD's side over the past few years."

"Yeah, I know. You've said that, repeatedly." Clint stood up, stretching. "So, cards?" He pulled a deck out of his pocket, starting to flick through it. "If, you know, you want me to take her out tomorrow and all that jazz. Me, I'd like to get home, I've missed enough classes and I'm getting really tired of the food here."

"Sure, why not."

It wasn't Red Room, and knowing her luck, not only was her watcher from SHIELD, but it was Hawkeye. Although, Natasha paused, pressing back into a doorway, that...could work. Get him someplace where he couldn't get that damned bow into play, try to make him listen. Work on paying for some of her sins, or at least get a fast death. That was something that everybody agreed on; Hawkeye never played around when he went for the kill. Usually straight to the brain, instant death. Taking a deep breath, she darted across the street, trying to make her path as clear as possible.

"What are you doing?" Clint murmured to himself, watching the woman practically sprint into the building that he was on. "Hey, Coulson, she's inside. Going in."

"Be careful," was all that his handler said over the radio.

"Always."

Carefully putting her back to the wall next to the door, Natasha looked around the room she had chosen, happy that there wasn't enough of a line-of-sight for Hawkeye to get her with anything but a handgun or hand-to-hand, and reports said that he hated the former, and she could probably get the drop on him with the latter. She'd just have to make sure to get that bow out of his hands before doing anything else. Controlling her breathing, she _listened_. There was enough rubble on the floors in here that it would take a circus magician to not make any noise. And there. A soft crunch, then the door started to open and she saw the tip of an arrow start to enter. She waited another breath, then slammed the door shut, breaking the arrow and hopefully the bow as well. Hearing cursing, she suspected that if she hadn't gotten the bow, she'd've at least gotten his hand. Jumping out of range of the door when it opened, she pulled her gun, backing up even more as the door slammed open.

"Dammit!" Clint cursed, as the door slammed shut on his bow. At least it hadn't gotten his hand. Pulling his handgun, he carefully set the bow down on the floor, then raised one foot and kicked the door open, moving inside the room, only to see the Black Widow staring at him, her own gun extended, hand shaking slightly. Wait, shaking?

"Hello, Hawkeye." Natasha chose to speak English. "Have a question for you."

"Yeah?" he asked warily. He could hear Coulson start yelling over the radio, his handler had obviously heard her voice and question.

"Do you think your boss would be as upset as mine if I went with you?" She was taking a gamble, here, and it showed in how shaky her voice was. "Because I want to go with you. Please."

Clint ignored Coulson's order to stop talking and just _shoot_ the woman, dammit. "Probably," he replied, still watching her carefully. "Why?"

"Just, _please_." her voice wasn't shaking anymore, it was practically sobbing. She carefully held her gun up, kneeling down on the floor, then sliding her gun towards him. She carefully repeated the actions with her bracelets and belt, then laced her fingers behind her head and crossed her legs at the ankles.

"Well, _damn_," Clint breathed, thinking furiously. "Coulson, _shut up_." he ordered, finally getting sick of what he was hearing over the radio. Carefully keeping his gun on her, he knelt down and grabbed everything that she had put on the floor. He slung her belt over his shoulder, and shoved her bracelets into a pocket. Picking up her gun, he pointed that at her as well, before holstering his. "Stand up. _Slowly_. One funny move, you'll be dead."

Natasha complied, keeping her hands behind her head. Following the jerk of his head, she slowly moved towards him. "I would prefer alive, but someplace other than my current employment."

"Stop." Clint ordered, seeing the woman obey. He backed up to the door, and bent down to pick up his bow and slung it over his shoulder with his quiver and her belt. "Come here." When Natasha got close enough, he grabbed one arm, twisting it behind her back. "We're going to the roof. Move."

Hawkeye wasn't being gentle, but Natasha could deal with that; at least she wasn't dead. Meekly, she let him push her up the stairs to the roof, then across a wood plank to a second building, and across to a third, one that was full of apartments. "Coulson, I'm coming in. Need restraints. Dammit, I'll explain later!" He continued pushing her along, entering the building and hugging the wall. Pausing, he whispered in Natasha's ear. "Close your eyes. Open them and you won't have the chance to close them on your own." She obeyed, and he continued pushing her along. She heard a knock, then a door opened.

"So dad, she followed me home, can I keep her?" Natasha couldn't figure out if Hawkeye was being sarcastic or serious. The "dammit, Barton!" she heard next was the last thing she could make out, before a bag was shoved over her head and she found herself shoved to the ground with a knee in her back. A few breaths later she felt the prick of a needle in her arm and everything went black.

"Barton, you have better have a damned good reason for this!" Coulson was yelling, pointing at the unconscious woman on the floor. "You were told to do _one_ thing, and you do the exact opposite!"

"Yeah? Were you even listening to me? No! You just told me to shut up and trust the analysts. Frankly, Coulson, their analysis was _shit_." Clint snapped back. "Listen to the fucking tapes of that little conversation that we just had, and listen to her _voice_. Complete and total _opposite_ of what the analysts said she'd say and do if we got her close enough to talk to us. She got the drop on me, and then? Got down on the floor, put down all of her weapons, and damn near _begged_ to come with. One of the things she said was 'someplace other than my current employment,' and if that's not asking for some help, I don't know what is." He paused, breathing heavily, trying to modulate his tone. "She's _asking_ to defect. She's been asking for _months_ now, ever since that hospital fire that she set. If we didn't have pictures and confirmation that this really was her, I'd wonder if this was a civilian, because she sure as hell didn't act like the Black Widow would have acted three months ago."

Coulson just glared at the archer. "Pack up. We're leaving in ten minutes. You get to carry her, and you'd better be able to back up just why you're making all these statements on the flight back to me, _and_ to Fury when we land. Don't think I'll be able to protect you if he gets upset, and right now? I'm not sure I want to."

The flight back was tense, and Coulson made Clint go over every single reason he disagreed with the analysis of the Black Widow. Three times. After the third set of questions, with the same answers, Coulson slumped back in his seat. "Dammit, Barton. I don't like this. It's calling into question a lot of things, but I'm seeing where you're coming from." A soft moan directed their attention to the woman laying on the floor at their feet. "And I have no idea what we're going to do with her, either. I guess, let her cool her heels while locked up for a few days." He reached for a drug kit, pulling out more sedative.

"No, she can walk." Clint was firm. "Besides, if she's just playing us, easy enough to shove her overboard."

Natasha woke up with a low moan, realizing that she was laying on a metal floor that was vibrating slightly. Opening her eyes, she realized that she still had a bag over her head; she could feel that her hands were tied behind her back as well. She couldn't feel anything through her boots, but she suspected that they had tied her feet as well. It was what she would have done. The vibrations changed, and she felt a hand grab her arm and haul her upright. "Don't do anything funny. Would hate to have to put you overboard, after all the hell you're putting me through." It was Hawkeye. She just lowered her head and continued to let him shove her around.

"Agent Barton! Want to tell me just what the _hell_ you were thinking, and why I shouldn't just shoot you myself!" Odd, that she could make out the words through the fabric covering her head; everybody must be yelling.

"The analysis?" Natasha felt her arm being shook as Hawkeye yelled back. "Total crap! Frankly, Director, the intelligence guys should all be shot, if _I_ can figure out that all that shit they were going on about was actually a request to fucking _defect_!" His grip tightened on her arm, drawing a small whimper from her. He was strong. "Listen to the damn tapes, tell me that I was wrong! She had the damn drop on me, could've sent me home in a fucking _body bag_, and instead sits down on the damn floor and says _please_! Does that really sound like somebody who is all that loyal to their parent organization anymore?" He tugged on her arm, and Natasha obeyed the command to move, stumbling slightly.

Clint was getting too close to Fury for Coulson's liking, and he quickly stepped in. "Sir. Let's take this inside, put her in lockup for now. Agent Barton made some points to me on the flight, you might want to take a look yourself and listen to their conversation."

Natasha found her hands suddenly freed, and a solid push in her back, combined with the bag being pulled from her head, sent her stumbling blindly forward. A click indicated that a door had been shut and probably locked behind her. Turning around, she saw a scowling Hawkeye make a motion to somebody out of her sight, then stalk off. She slowly sat down on the shelf in the cell, drawing her knees up to her chest and sobbing.

When Clint entered the security room, it was empty except for Fury and Coulson. Coulson had Clint's laptop open and the tape from the encounter playing. "That's when she got down on the ground, and handed over her gun, belt, and bracelets. Speaking of that, here." He pulled Natasha's bracelets out of his pocket, gently placing them on the table. "If you notice, I hadn't yet given her a single order." He folded his arms across his chest, staring at Fury.

"You overstepped your authority, Agent Barton." Fury said, low and dangerous. "Agent Coulson has let me listen to the tape, now I want you to walk me through just why, _exactly_, you think she wanted to defect."

Clint did so, even pulling up some pictures and reports that the intelligence analysts had ignored or passed over as being inconsequential. Coulson just stood back, and Fury watched and listened. When Clint was finished, Fury proceeded to ask every question Coulson had, as well as some others, face expressionless.

"Well, Agent Barton." Fury had moved over to the security cameras, and was staring at the monitor for Natasha's cell, thoughtfully. "I will be having a talk with the analysts. She's going to stay in there until I decide just _which_ one of you I believe more. Stay the hell out of my sight until I make my decision, understood? In fact, you're restricted to quarters. Agent Coulson, lock him in there." He picked up the bracelets and walked out of the room.

"Let's go, Barton." Coulson was still annoyed. "I'll make sure you get fed, but that's it. Just hope that Fury makes up his mind soon."

Clint, for his part, just picked up his laptop and stalked off.

Natasha wasn't sure how long she was in the cell, but when a voice ordered her to stand up and move to the wall with her hands behind her head, she was quick to obey. She was patted down, roughly, then handed some clothing and told to change. When they were done, she returned to the shelf and curled up again, resting her chin on her knees and staring at nothing. This was to be expected, she told herself, and it could have been much worse. Everything could be worse. She was fed once, and was just about to try and take a nap when there was a man standing outside her cell. He was looking at somebody out of her line of sight, nodding. When the door started to open, she scrambled to her feet, backing up against the wall.

"Black Widow." The man just looked at her. "What is your real name?"

"Natasha. Natasha Romanoff." she didn't try to meet his eyes, but stared at the ground.

"Well, Miss Romanoff. You've been granted a stay of execution, as well as slightly more comfortable quarters. Come with me." He turned around, and she followed, noticing the guards falling in around them.

The walk through the hallways was quiet, the metal floor cold against her feet. The man stopped by a door and opened it, motioning Natasha in. "Your room, for now. Food will be brought to you. Do you have any questions for me?"

"Yes," Natasha whispered. "What should I call you?"

The man raised one eyebrow. "You may call me Agent Coulson."

"Thank you," she whispered, hearing the door close and lock behind her. Not looking around, she moved straight to the bed and lay down, staring at the wall.

When Clint heard his door open, he didn't move, instead looking straight at his laptop. A glance at the clock on the screen said that it wasn't mealtime, so that meant only two things were possible.

"Clint." Coulson's voice, and the fact that he was using Clint's first name again with that tone of voice suggested the better of the two options. Clint really didn't want to think about the alternative; after four days stuck in here he was still plenty mad, and ready to climb the walls.

"Fuck off," was Clint's reply. He was also hurt, that Coulson hadn't trusted him.

"I'm sorry."

Clint finally looked over at Coulson then, the first time he'd bothered to look at the older man since they'd returned. "Yeah? That's nice. I'm not."

"You were right. Fury agrees, and there's been a decision made about Miss Romanoff."

"Yeah?" Clint shoved his chair back and stood up. He flopped down on his bed, nodding at the chair. "Sit, and I'll pretend to listen, and maybe even pretend to get rid of some of this mad."

Coulson sat, glancing over at Clint's laptop. "Ah, so that's why you don't sound so curious. How long have you been watching?"

"On and off since you guys put her in there. Would love to know what's going on in her headspace right now, that she's barely even moved from the bed. At least she's eating."

"Psych says that she's probably depressed." A snort from the bed gave Clint's opinion of that assessment. "Psych also says that you're nuts, but we already knew that."

"Naturally. You trained me, after all."

"Which is why you might be the best person to help wake her up."

"Oh?" Now Clint sounded curious, and he sat up, finally looking at Coulson.

"Yes. Psych's options are to just drug her up, and she's got some good information in there. You might just be nuts enough to do everything that needs to be done and keep a useful product afterwards."

"We've been reduced to things." Clint rolled his eyes. "Okay. I'll have a list of stuff that I want for you in half an hour. And I also have a rather intense desire, still, to break things, so I'd suggest you leave, because I'm going to drop off that list and then go to the gym, and anybody who gets in my way will probably end up being one of those broken things. I'll go see her tomorrow, once the last of the mad is worked off."

Natasha had lost track of the time, but had an idea that it had been several days, simply because of the number of meals that she had been brought. So when she heard the door open, she just assumed that it was another meal. The thud of something landing on the floor and the voice were new.

"You stink." The voice was slightly familiar. It wasn't Agent Coulson, though. Rolling over, she saw Hawkeye standing in the doorway, a duffel bag on the floor next to him, clothing in his hands. He moved forward, shutting the door behind him. "Get up, go take a shower, and put clean clothes on." He tossed the clothing onto the bed. Numbly, Natasha obeyed. She hadn't actually looked in the bathroom much, and was surprised that there was soap and shampoo already in the shower. When she emerged, she found Hawkeye finishing making the bed. The absurdity of the situation – SHIELD's most feared assassin, the man whispered about in Red Room's halls as a supernatural bogeyman, doing woman's work – forced a small giggle out of her. He looked up as he smoothed the blanket down, a smile playing around the edges of his lips. "Find something funny?"

"You are doing woman's work." She didn't move, keeping a careful eye on the man.

"Not around here, it isn't." He straightened up, looking over his work critically. "Good enough." He turned, picking up the duffel bag and putting it on the bed. "More clothing." He went to the desk and opened a drawer. "Remote control for the television." He walked to the door and knocked, twice, and when it opened he accepted the tray with a firm nod. "Something other than soup and sandwiches to eat."

The smells intrigued Natasha and she slowly moved closer, watching as he put the tray down on the desk. She sat down, and slowly ate, turning in her seat to keep watch on Hawkeye. "Thank you, Hawkeye."

"Agent Clint Barton," he corrected, nodding. "Finished?" At her nod, he moved forward, picking up the tray. "So here's the deal. I'll be in and out, but I've got more shit to do than just stay in here. You promise to behave and not stash anything as weapons, you'll be fed something other than the canned crap that they've been giving you." Watching her nod, he continued. "Good. You can ask me questions if you have any. Do you have any?"

Natasha shook her head, watching as Hawkeye turned and left the room. Standing up, she moved to the duffel to see just what, exactly, he had brought her.


	2. Chapter 2

Clint plays an ass and has too much to do, Natasha's a flirt, there's a reason this story is rated M, plus the author is conservative.

* * *

"She's not depressed. Well, not as much as Psych is saying." Clint's announcement had Coulson looking up from his computer to see the archer slouched in a chair.

"Lockpicks, Clint." Coulson held out his hand. He had locked the door, that he was sure of, and he couldn't wait until the new electronic locks were finally installed. When Clint rolled his eyes and handed the kit over, Coulson tapped it lightly against his desk. "Why do you say that?"

"One, they were feeding her crap that was probably older than _Fury_. Mess hall tried to give me something about how that was all she needed and or deserved. Before you ask, I was polite. I made her take a shower, and she looked a bit more alive when she came out of the bathroom. Plus," here Clint paused, pulled his laptop from his backpack, and opened it. He hit a button. "Take a look."

It was the video and audio feed from Natasha's room, and Clint had pulled up their conversation from the point that she had seen him making the bed. "Depressed people can laugh, Clint."

"Sure, but it's a lot less likely in those that only lay around in bed all day and don't take care of themselves like she was doing." Clint spun his laptop back around, muting the speakers and pulling up the real-time video. "I'm just trying to put myself in her shoes, and I'm remembering my first little bit here. I was pretty shocky at times, she's probably even more so. Making her mad might be what's needed. Have a couple ideas."

"Care to share?"

"She's probably going to be looking for some security, she's still kinda locked up in her head, just how much, I don't know. I'm not a psychiatrist, after all. Trying to figure out just what we're going to do with her will be interesting." Clint's eyes didn't leave the screen, watching Natasha move around her room. "So no outright interrogation, no questions at _all_ until she's really aware of what's going on. As for pushing her buttons...I've got schoolwork, easy enough to do it in there. Don't think she's the sort that'll like that, especially after being left alone for so long, and from what all the reports on the Black Widow say. I can also take my cues from what she does and says, be an ass. The rest, still kinda out there."

"Keep talking."

"I think," and here Clint started to look uncertain. "I think she's going to need a friend. And I think that_ I'd_ like a friend. And there's another, very nebulous, idea floating around in my head that I'm not going to share until I get it all figured out."

"Just be careful. She could hurt you pretty badly." Coulson leaned back in his chair, gazing at Clint steadily.

"I'm a big boy, Coulson. Of course I'll be careful." Clint picked up his laptop, closing it and sliding it back into his backpack. "But I've got some stuff to finish for tomorrow. Can I have my picks back?"

"Not until you learn to knock."

Natasha knew she owed her rescuer a thank you, and she could only really, truly, think of one way. So when Hawkeye – Agent Clint Barton, she reminded herself – walked into her room the next day, holding a notebook, she put her half-formed plan into action. Walking over to him, she slid her arms around him from behind, breathing into his ear, "I believe I owe you a...thank you, for getting me out."

She felt him stiffen slightly, heard his breathing increase, then steady. "I'll pass, thanks." He shrugged out of her embrace, placing what he was carrying down on the desk. "Now go back to whatever you were doing, I've got to study." He sat down, opening the notebook and pulling a pen out of his pocket.

Natasha stood there for a moment, stunned in the rejection. This had never happened before, in all her years of working for the Red Room and KGB. Feeling a challenge, she walked over and draped herself over the man's shoulder. "Are you sure?" she purred.

She could never discover afterward just how he'd gotten the jump on her, but she suddenly found herself pinned on the bed, hands held behind her back by one of his hands, legs held by one of his. "Hush," he told her, free hand pulling out zip ties and quickly, efficiently, tying her up, before tossing a blanket over her body and turning on the TV, sitting back down. "Watch some TV. Because your accent? It sucks. Plus, you can learn all sorts of bad things about Americans."

She twisted around, trying to get free, only to wrap herself up in the blanket. "Little help, here?" she begged, finding that it was wrapping around her in a manner that was becoming uncomfortable.

"Nope, don't think so." Clint looked at her out of the corner of his eye and nodded to himself, before starting to write, flipping between pages in his notebook. "So if Jefferson said this..." he mumbled, mostly to himself.

Natasha started to feel angry. Not only had he rejected her, he was now ignoring her. She pulled every trick she could think of, keeping an eye on the man sitting at the desk. She watched in pleasure as his shoulders started to tense, his jaw clenched, and one leg started bouncing.

She never saw him move, but suddenly he was just _there_, leaning over her, eyes dark. "So, my pretty little spider," he breathed into her ear. "Having trouble?"

Smirking in triumph, she slowly licked her lips, watching his pupils dilate. Quick as a snake, she darted her head up, nipping at the side of his jaw, before letting her head fall back down, opening her eyes as wide as she could. "Maybe," she whispered. "I do think you could...help."

One thing that Natasha Romanoff would freely admit for the rest of her life, was that Clint Barton could kiss, taking command in a way that she had never experienced before. She felt his hand trail down her side, squeezing her hip, and then soon, too soon, he was pulling back and gagging her, picking her up, and repositioning her such that seeing anything other than the TV would require flexibility not allowed by her current state. She heard him pick his things up from the desk, move the chair, and felt the dip of the bed as he sat down, heard the thud of his boots hitting the chair, and felt the blanket settle back over her body. "I said, hush." he commanded, one hand reaching over and stroking her hair. Somehow, she fell asleep with the quiet scratching of pen on paper and some random American TV show filling her ears, a hand on her head that should have felt restrictive but was instead calming.

Clint slipped out of the room, passing Coulson in the hall. Coulson watched in puzzlement as the archer scowled at him, then stalked off down the hall, muttering about Russian wenches and cold showers. Coulson slowly smiled, feeling an irrational pleasure that Clint was getting some form of payback for not only disobeying orders, but for being such a pain in the ass himself. He turned and headed in the opposite direction, already planning on pulling the security feeds from the room.

The pattern repeated the next few days. Natasha could tell that the man was interested, but he kept on teasing her, following her lead and then pulling back just when she thought she'd succeeded. It was frustrating, infuriating, and she started to feel a challenge, the first time she could remember feeling like that in months. She changed tactics one night, waiting to hear the click of the door lock, then jumping on him as soon as he entered and shut the door. She had him pinned, notebook laying on the floor halfway across the room, and leaned down and kissed him roughly. "So, Agent Barton," she whispered, leaning forward, enjoying the way that his eyes followed her, flicking down to her chest and then back up to her face. "I do owe you that thanks, you know." She leaned forward, kissing him again, this time rolling her body down onto his.

He let her, and kissed her back, raising his head, before dropping his head back to the floor with a smirk. "You do know that this room is wired for sight and sound? Are you that much of an exhibitionist?" As she froze in shock, he tilted his head up and breathed in her ear, "I'd much rather wait until we can be someplace...much...more...private." He _moved _on the last word, and Natasha found that she was suddenly the one pinned, a position that seemed to happen far too often with this man. She wasn't sure if she liked it, or wanted to castrate him very, very slowly. "So, my pretty little spider, behave, cooperate, and you'll find...life...suddenly improving." One of his fingers trailed along the side of her face, down her neck, and to the hollow between her breasts before he was suddenly standing up, retrieving his notebook, and leaving the room.

Coulson was standing outside the room, a slight smile on his face. "Having troubles?"

Clint glared. "SHIELD had better be happy that I'm not using any of their hot water anymore," he snarled, stalking down the hallway.

Coulson hurried to follow. "Clint."

Clint stopped, and spun around in the hallway. "I'm _fine_," he snapped. "You know, it's just that I've got _two_ tests tomorrow, a paper due Monday, which my professor wants hard copy and he won't say why, which means that if I don't get it done by tomorrow afternoon I have to fly in and stick it under his door Saturday when I'd much rather be doing mission prep because we're supposed to head off to wherever the fuck it is again _Sunday_, and a _totally_ hot redheaded Russian woman throwing herself at me whenever I walk into the room, which I know is wired even more than most of the detention cells here and I _can't_ figure out why she didn't think of that. Most of the time in class these days, I'm remotely logged into the security feeds, seeing what she does, and trying to figure it all out. Figure _her_ out, it's a good thing I sit with my back to the wall and nobody next to me, and screw whatever is being lectured on. She's my problem, I know. Up to me to fix her or take her out like I was supposed to. It's _also_ a test of my self-control, which I can deal with because I don't want the entire _fucking_ world seeing any more than they already are. I've heard the whispers. I had some random guy in that fucking ugly new blue Star Trek reject uniform walk up to me yesterday and give me _suggestions_. So either you deal with whoever leaked those videos, Coulson, or I will, and my way _will_ involve cracking heads of _anybody_ who has access to the security feeds and the knowledge of how to spread it around, _including_ you and Fury. I've missed _two_ group study sessions for my IR seminar so far in the past _month_, thanks to her, and the last e-mail I got from the group leader, who _also_ sent it to the professor, was suggesting that if I miss another, read tomorrow's, I'm pretty much fucked in their eyes. Only excuse according to the group is if I was unconscious in the ICU, and that would require a doctor's note and proof from a hospital that they recognize. My cover can only go so far, and it's being pretty well tested this semester." He stopped, breathing heavily.

"Calm down," Coulson ordered. "Look, this conversation needs to be someplace other than the hallway, so meet me back at your quarters. I'll be there in a little bit, just need to do something first, grab a couple things."

"If it's not at _least_ 80-proof, I'm not playing." Clint grumbled, but he walked off, pausing once to snarl wordlessly at somebody who congratulated him and slapped his back as Coulson watched him go, before turning to stop by security and attempt to determine just who had started spreading rumors and videos.

Coulson tapped lightly on Clint's door, trying to balance multiple items. When Clint opened it, he held the tray out. "Here. I think part of your issue is that you haven't eaten yet, have you?" Pushing into the room, he put down the rest of the items on the desk, searching for places that weren't covered with study materials. "You've come a long way, Clint, must admit that. That punk-ass kid who was going for his GED would never have this sort of deal going on."

"Yeah, well, Delores and her bunch didn't give me much of an option once they got involved. You gave me even less of one. And college is a hell of a lot more interesting than the GED. College student is also a fun role to play, even though I have to miss out on all the parties and girls. It's also tough, flying in and out practically every day and hoping that I make it there in time to fit with my cover of dutiful son taking care of uber-sick mother. At least my classes are all right around lunch this semester. The seminar group isn't helping much, either, even though the professor knows that there are times that I just _can't_ be there, and told me at the beginning of the semester that it was cool. I just can't make the rest of the group happy, participating over e-mail or IM. Video chats aren't possible with most of their computers, and I don't have anyplace secure around here to actually do that, anyways." Clint took the tray over to his bed, sitting down and staring at what he'd been given. "I don't remember when I last ate. Breakfast maybe. Thanks."

"I suspected as much." Coulson sat down at the desk. "Can this be moved?" He took a look around the room. "And actually, tape a couple posters and a sheet up on the wall behind your bed, use a headset, video chats might be possible."

"Yeah, just pile it all up on top of the laptop. Good idea about the chats, but I'm not going to sweat it. Professor has my back, the group'll just have to deal." Clint was bolting down the food that Coulson had brought. "Sorry for snapping earlier."

"Don't blame you, unless you really did decide to get physical. Wouldn't recommend confronting Fury."

"Wouldn't _confront_ him. I'm not suicidal, just your happy little crazy assassin-spy. The air vents around here are way to big for security purposes, I'd just hide in one until I could get a good shot. Probably when he's alone. And asleep."

"And thank you, Clint, for pointing out what many people already know, and increasing my paranoia about the security of the Helicarrier even more. So, Natasha."

"Ah yes, my pretty little spider." Clint finished eating with a low chuckle, and glanced at what else Coulson had brought in. "Is any of that for me?"

"Don't know. You said you had tests tomorrow?"

"Yeah, physics and history. I'm good on that stuff. Gimme." Clint held out his hand, waiting until Coulson passed over the ice cream and a bottle of beer. "So. The wench. This is all in thanks, believe it or not, I really don't think she poses that much of a risk, but I'm being careful as hell. I think she's starting to go stir crazy, stuck in there; she did ask to come with after all, and has been behaving. No attempts to keep things from meal trays back, no making weapons, no trying to leave."

"True, except for trying to strip you naked and have her wicked ways with you." Coulson pointed out, enjoying Clint's wince.

"I _think_ that's just her training coming out. Like I said, she keeps on saying that it's a thank you. If you look at half the guys she's taken out, it's been while they've been in bed. Sex is just a tool for her. At least, part of me is thinking that it's just her training. The other part of me is saying 'Hey! Hot woman throwing herself at me!' And even then, she's not all that aggressive and I've been able to either break her grip or turn it all around on her." Clint shrugged. "I want to take her to the gym. Clear everybody out, have a few security guards in those oh-so-lovely air vents, and just let her get some energy out in a way that won't have the entire fucking Helicarrier congratulating me for the next month and make me send at _least_ half of them to Medical. And if she behaves herself there, I'll just toss her in the Quinjet with me and take her to drop off my paper. It won't be done in time to take it with me in the morning and I won't have time to finish it during the day while I'm on campus, but I can get security to let me into the faculty offices to drop it off."

"You sure that's a good idea?"

"What, you think that she'll suddenly learn everything about SHIELD from a gym and a suburban college, escape and return to the Red Room, a group that she _asked_ to get away from? She'll probably flip out over the fact that it's new to her. Sure, she can take me out with a weight, but so far, the only time she's put me on the floor is when she got the drop on me today. And you saw how that ended up, because I know you watch the feeds. Bastard." Clint grumbled. "School...I think I can keep a handle on her, especially with the new drugs that R and D has come up with. Hard to run off when you're on the ground, seizing. But take a look at the feeds from the gym when we get in there. I predict it'll be interesting."

Coulson was running a phrase Clint had used through his head. "Pretty little spider?"

"Yeah. Like I said, she's smoking hot, not that big, and her code name is Black Widow. Besides, it's another way for me to play with her, keep her off balance, maybe keep her a bit more honest. And I'm _trying_ to push her buttons. You were also the one who told me to get her out of that funk, remember? I'm probably halfway there by now. Plus, it's fun, for all that I'm going nuts trying to be one thing in that room and myself out of it. So, gym and field trip? Maybe tomorrow, when I get back from school and abject groveling to my seminar group?"

Coulson sighed, taking a drink of his own drink. "I'll see what I can do. It may not be tomorrow, but I can swing Saturday. Not quite sure about taking her with you to drop off the paper."

"I like Saturday better. I can tempt her with that tomorrow, when I gift her with some ballet, and it'll mean that there won't be two back and forths in one day. And try for getting her permission to go with me? I think that's what might be needed to wake her back up completely."

Natasha spent the next day systematically hunting down microphones and cameras, furious with herself that she hadn't thought of that when they first put her in this room. As she found each one, she very clearly said "naughty, naughty," or shook her head. So when Clint entered that night, it was to find Natasha laying on her bed, watching TV, wearing only a long shirt.

"Missed a few," was all that he said, tossing the blanket he was carrying over her, before grabbing the chair and sitting down, propping his feet up on the bed and staring at her. "So, my pretty little spider. Bored yet?"

"Very." Natasha was feeling put out, that she'd missed microphones and cameras. She could have sworn that she'd found them all, even the one inside her bed. She realized that for the first time, Clint hadn't brought anything in with him except for a blanket, and felt a sudden hope that maybe, for once, he'd do something other than study and tease her. Zip ties were less than comfortable.

He reached over to the desk, picking up the remote control and pulling a tape out of his pocket. "A present. I know it's not as good as live," he slipped the tape into the VCR, pushing play, and a ballet started to play as he returned to his position on the chair. "and it's not Russian, but the American Ballet Company is pretty popular in their own right."

She watched, hungrily, as the opening strains of Swan Lake came through the speakers. Clint just stayed where he was, dividing his attention between her and the television, a small smile on his face. After a few minutes, he hit pause, then casually glanced at her. "Get dressed. I refuse to sit on a bed with you when you're half-naked."

Natasha scrambled to comply, not caring that he was watching her, not caring about the remaining cameras. Whoever was watching would have seen it all already, after all. Clint, for his part, just seemed to look straight through her, expressionless, then stood up and sat down on the bed, grabbing a pillow and leaning back against the wall, pressing play. She stiffly sat down next to him, very carefully keeping a minimum of thirty centimeters between the two of them, only to have him mutter "come here," and pat the bed next to him. She slid closer, feeling his arm come down around her shoulders and pull her right up next to his side. It was...odd, and she didn't know what to think. She did find it surprisingly comfortable and reassuring. Homely.

At the end of the first act, he paused the video again and glanced down at her. "Feel like getting out of this room tomorrow for a bit? Thought you'd might like to see the gym, get some exercise in."

Natasha nodded. "But what of your superiors? They might have issue with what I could do."

Clint shook his head. "Coulson cleared it, and," he smirked, "my pretty little spider, _I'll_ be there."

Natasha just sniffed derisively, then turned back to the television. Somehow, she ended up falling asleep, leaning against the man, and found herself the next morning tucked under a blanket. Her boots were on the floor next to the bed, the first time she'd seen them since arriving at SHIELD.


	3. Chapter 3

Field trip.

* * *

Clint stood back, by the door, and watched Natasha as she entered the gym. He sat down on a weight bench to give his paper one last go-over, eyes marking where security had been posted, before returning to Natasha, then his computer. He kept half an eye on her as she prowled around the perimeter of the room, suddenly stopping in front of him. "Please?" She held out one hand.

"Please what?" Clint stood up after sending his paper to the printer in Coulson's office, snapping his laptop shut.

"I want to spar." Natasha was firm, and she grabbed his hand, insistently pulling him towards the mats set out for that purpose.

"Would you like a knife?" he asked casually, chuckling when he saw the way she stopped and stared at him.

"You'd trust me with a knife?" her tone was skeptical. "I, who am being watched even now?" She pointed at one of the guards by the door.

"Yeah," he responded, pulling practice knives out and tossing one to her, sliding one into his belt.

The fight was short, and brutal, and neither could conclusively say that they had won. Natasha ended up with a bloody nose, and Clint a bloody lip, as she sat on the mat and stared up at him, breathing heavily. "You are...very good." She made an effort to speak without a trace of an accent. Sure, she knew English, but in her past, Russian tourist was always a good cover, so she had never worked very hard at covering up any accents.

He smirked at her. "Of course I am." he offered her a hand, sending her flying as she accepted it, initiating a second round without any warning. He "killed" her that time, taking a glance at his watch. "Want to go for a field trip?"

"Field trip?"

"Yeah, I have to take a paper to school." Suddenly she wasn't looking at Clint Barton, but at Hawkeye, the killer. "If you come, you _will_ behave, and follow all my instructions, understand?"

"I understand." she obediently held out the practice knife, and he accepted it, returning the weapons to a storage locker, before he picked up his laptop and escorted her back to her room. "Get clean, I'll be back for you in thirty minutes. I'll have some clothing for you."

Clint was entering her room exactly thirty minutes after he'd dropped her off, holding a bundle of clothing and a backpack. "Here," he said, tossing the clothes at her. She caught what she could one-handed, the other holding a towel around her, and looked at him. "Well? Get dressed, if you want to come."

She gathered up the rest of the clothing, going into the bathroom to get dressed. She came out, a faint look of distaste on her face at the feeling of the rough fabric. He hadn't brought her any shoes, so she just put her boots back on.

"Come on." Was all Clint said, indicating that she should follow him. He didn't say another word until they were seated in the back of a Quinjet. "Alright. Here's the deal. Misbehave, and I'll put you down, hard. I've got some stuff that'll work before you can even get a word out. All that we're doing is getting in a car, driving to my school, parking, entering two buildings, then returning." She could see him thinking. "My cover is a student who lives at home, helping to take care of a sick mother. You..." he stared at her.

"Girlfriend?" she offered impishly.

He started to shake his head no, then stopped. "That...yeah, that works." He suddenly stood up, leaning over to whisper in her ear. "But, my pretty little spider, that doesn't mean that you can just do whatever you want to with me. Not yet, at least." The glint in his eye as he sat down again was both a warning and a promise to Natasha, and she started to wonder if she'd made the best decisions in regards to this man...and if she really wanted to sleep with him as a thank you anymore.

Natasha spent the rest of the plane ride staring at Clint, realizing how little she truly knew. It disturbed her, that even though the Iron Curtain had fallen, Red Room's intelligence was still lost in the eighties and early nineties when it came to SHIELD and their operatives, as well as how they worked and what they did outside of their SHIELD duties. Clint was dressed casually, a faded jacket with multiple pockets slung onto the seat over his backpack, a style that she had seen was becoming more common, but she hadn't just realized how common. It was fascinating, as the jet landed, to watch him suddenly change, from the fearless man that was forever calling her his "pretty little spider," to a man who was...normal, disturbingly so.

He drove fast, and was patient with her playing with the radio. She pretended to not show the awe she felt at the college campus, patiently following him as he walked into a building and leaned on a counter. "Hey, Wendy! Didn't know you were working today. Look, I need some help." He smiled helplessly at the girl behind the counter. "So I've got this paper that's due Monday, but my mom needs surgery that day and my professor said that I had to give him a hard copy before Monday if I'm going to miss class which is totally bogus 'cause he's stuck in the dark ages or something, and we have to head into the city on Sunday, so I was wondering if I could get into the History offices to drop it off?"

The girl, Wendy, smiled back at Clint. "Sure. Lemme call up Gary for you. Hey Clint, who's this?"

"This?" Clint glanced over at Natasha, reaching out and pulling her close. "Wendy, Natasha. Natasha, Wendy. Wendy's in my IR seminar this semester. Natasha's my girlfriend. It's kinda a long-distance thing, so when I said that I had to come drop off this paper, she asked to come along since she was already in town visiting, and my mom was asleep. Dad's a real bear to be around right now, too, he's a little stressed out."

"Hi!" Wendy beamed at Natasha. "Nice to finally meet a friend of Clint's! He always looks so lonely in class, it's nice to see that he's actually got a life outside of his house."

"Hi," Natasha said quietly. "It is nice to meet you too."

"So, Wendy, calling Gary?" Clint looked like a puppy, Natasha decided. "I kinda need to get this dropped off and get home."

Wendy nodded, leaning over to a radio and speaking rapidly into it. Sitting back up, she smiled. "He'll meet you over there. Clint, think you'll be back for class this week?"

Clint shrugged. "It depends on a lot of things. I hope so." He smiled again. "Thanks. I'll be seeing you."

"Bye! Bye Natasha, nice to meet you!" Wendy was incredibly cheerful, too much so, Natasha decided, leaving with a small smile and shy wave.

Clint hugged her close as he led her to another building, murmuring into her hair. "Good girl. Keep it up, you get a prize."

Natasha felt a slow burn in her chest, a mixture of anger and pleasure. Anger, because she was a fully-trained assassin and spy of the Red Room, and knew how to act when given a cover, pleasure because she didn't want to disappoint Clint, she wasn't quite sure why, which was also annoying her.

Gary was a cheery older gentleman, greeting Clint by name. "Clint! Good to see you! How's your mother? And who is this lovely lady?"

"She's doing good, but she's got surgery Monday, so I'm dropping this paper off now. Gary, this is Natasha, my girlfriend."

"Mr. Barton," Gary stared at the archer reproachfully. "You never told me that you had a girlfriend, let alone one as lovely as this." He took Natasha's hand, and kissed it. "It is my pleasure to meet you, young lady. You just let me know if Mr. Barton here sets one toe out of line."

Natasha giggled, giving the man a big smile. "Of course," she agreed. "Clint is a perfect gentleman." She accented the last two words slightly, watching him out of the corner of her eye. He was good, she decided, to not show any reaction. "But, Clint promised me lunch out, and he really needs to drop off this paper?" She heard her accent coming out then, but just knew that Clint had a ready explanation for that, too, the smug bastard.

"Of course!" Gary turned, opening a door and leading the pair through a darkened building. Unlocking a second door, he watched as Clint pulled a paper out of his bag and slid it under a third, before escorting them out of the building. "Mr. Barton, you take good care of this young lady, understand?"

Clint nodded, with a smile. "Won't do anything but. Thanks, Gary, you're a lifesaver." He waved at the security guard, then glanced down at Natasha. "So, want a tour? Can't get into the cool stuff, but I can at least show my girl where I go to school?"

She nodded, fascinated. It was not quite what she had expected, and she listened as he described the different buildings and statues, eyes wide, looking at the other students walking around campus. Clint steered her back to his car, holding the door for her. He pulled into a fast food restaurant, glancing over at Natasha. "Food?"

"Yes, please. Cheeseburger? And Coca Cola?"

Clint nodded, as he pulled up to the drive-through speaker, placing the order. He paid, handing Natasha a couple bags, before pulling back out on the road. He ate quickly, and Natasha watched him as she slowly ate her own burger. As they pulled into the parking lot of the airport, she tried to see him flip that mental switch from his student identity to the man that had been confusing her so much.

Parking, he looked over at her with a small smile. "Good job, my pretty little spider. You get your prize."

Mutely, she climbed back in the Quinjet. Suddenly, the anger that she had been feeling on and off for the past week hit her as she sat down. "Stop that."

"Hm?" Clint glanced over at her. "Stop what?"

"Stop calling me your pretty little spider. I can understand the cameras, and the microphones, and being locked up in a room, but you keep on calling me that, and tying me up, and ignoring me. So stop it, or I'll have to make you." She took a careful look at him. "And I will leave you laying there, bleeding out."

Clint laughed, relaxing back in his seat. "Finally. I hated being an ass to try and get you to snap out of whatever was going on in your head. Well no, actually, I love being an ass, but trying to be that sort of ass while on SHIELD territory was distracting." He leaned forward, invading her space, suddenly serious. "But," he breathed into her ear, "you've been trying my self-control, _Natasha_. Maybe it's _my_ turn, hmmm?" He pulled back, handing her his backpack. "Part of your prize."

She opened it, anger suddenly derailed by his reaction, and peered inside, to find a collection of video tapes. Pulling one out, then a second, she smiled up at him, seeing the labels. "Thank you."

"The other part will happen in a little bit. Every person I know desires privacy, you're getting a new room. Bit larger, no cameras, no microphones, unless you do something that says that you need them." He shrugged. "Unless you _like_ having folks always watching you. Personally, it creeps me out. Almost sent more than a few folks to Medical this past week." He sat down again, pulling a book out of his jacket.

"Thank you." she whispered, again, catching a small pleased smile cross his face.

Their arrival back at the Helicarrier was less exciting than the first time, with Clint pulling a cell phone out of his pocket and calling Coulson. "We're back. Your office?" He turned and glanced at Natasha. "No problem." He snorted. "And success. Hell of a lot faster than you thought, that's for sure." He jerked his head at Natasha, and she followed him through the halls, ending up in what she assumed was his room. "Need something, then Coulson wants to see us."

Glancing at him, she let the backpack slide off her shoulder next to the door, taking the time to wander slowly around the room. It was not what she was expecting. The only sign of clutter was on the desk, which had papers and notebooks scattered across the surface, the rest of the room was almost obsessively tidy, and she was confused by the lack of weaponry; she had expected to at least see a bow, if not some arrows. She paused in front of a bookcase that had been wedged in one corner, crouching down to look at what he had.

It wasn't much, she decided, and certainly not what she would classify as good reading. He had multiple copies of The Little Prince, in multiple languages, and the rest was a scattering of what appeared to be textbooks and fiction.

"It's no Tolstoy, true, but I find that children's books are very nice for learning other languages, especially books that you like." He was suddenly kneeling behind her, reaching out for the top shelf. She hadn't even heard him coming, which shook Natasha slightly, that she'd let her guard down so much, and that he could move so silently. "Here." He pulled out two copies of The Little Prince. "Russian and English. If you'd like the French version, let me know. There always seems to be something lost in translation. This story helped me when I first came to SHIELD."

She nodded, taking both books and loosely holding them in one hand. "This is...not what I was expecting."

He didn't move, and she felt him staring at the back of her head. "Oh? What were you expecting?" He asked her lightly. "Weights, weapons, and porn?" Now he was mocking her.

"Yes. Of men." She snapped, feeling him chuckle behind her, and realized that if she had ever had control over this man, it was because he'd let her.

"Now, now, Natasha, if I was like that, would I be doing this?" he whispered into her ear, as he slid his hands down her arms, carefully taking the books from her, placing them on the floor, then tangling one hand into her hair. He pulled her head back, other arm sliding around her waist, and Natasha tried for a glimpse of his face before he was kissing her. She let herself enjoy the sensation, trying to turn around so that she could respond properly, but his hand still tangled in her hair meant that she was left trying to balance awkwardly. She lost the fight with gravity, falling back, breaking the kiss as she bumped into Clint's chest, feeling him chuckle as he let go of her hair.

She started to turn, when she felt him start to stand up, forcing her to her feet as well. Dropping a quick kiss on her forehead, he released her, smiling faintly down at her as he saw her expression. "Let's go." He turned away from her.

He was halfway to the door when she sprang, knocking him down with a faint grunt. "Sloppy," she chided him, as she straddled his waist, pinning his arms. She leaned down, kissing him lightly, then pulled back, enjoying watching his obvious attempts at controlling his instincts. Glee filled her as she slowly shifted her grip so that their fingers were entwined and he didn't resist for once, letting her take control. She ignored the wary expression on his face as she leaned down and kissed him again, catching his bottom lip between her teeth. "Is this more private?" She whispered, head dipping down to nip at his ear.

"Oh, very," he nodded, before freeing one hand and wrapping it around her back, sliding it up underneath her shirt. She tried to do the same to him, pulling his shirt out from where it was tucked into his jeans, but he rolled them over, shaking his head while pinning her hands down. He seemed to only use one hand, she realized, and wondered why. "Nope," he grinned as he kissed her again, free hand sliding down her side and thigh. "No lookee, no touchee for Natasha," he half-sang as she heard a quiet click of a knife opening, then felt the blade being drawn along her collarbone. "Now, as for Clint..." he drew it out, trailing the tip of the blade down the front of her shirt, promise and threat at the same time, head dipping down for a quick kiss, before suddenly pulling back, releasing her, and standing up, closing the knife. "Clint says that we've a meeting to get to." He turned, walking back to the bookcase and picking up the books from the floor, then putting them into the backpack.

"Bastard," Natasha spat, standing up, tugging her shirt back into place.

"Now, now, my parents were married. I think. I don't remember. Considering where I'm from, they probably were, but I haven't bothered to check the county records." Clint was standing by the door, bag in hand. "Besides, I said it was my turn to tease you, didn't I?" He smirked, opening the door. With a jerk of his head, he continued, "Move your pretty little ass, Natasha."

* * *

"So, Clint. You survived dropping off your paper, I see. Miss Romanoff, did you enjoy your little trip?" Coulson leaned back in his chair, staring at the two sitting across from him. "And, incidentally, bad, Barton, bad. No dessert for you tonight."

Clint grinned, not saying a word.

"I want a written report, since she was in your room." Coulson frowned lightly. "Keep it PG, will you?"

"I lent her a couple books." Clint shrugged.

"He wouldn't _let_ me do anything." Natasha pouted, breaking into the conversation.

"I know." Coulson calmly stared at Natasha. "You are quite...tenacious, Miss Romanoff, that is something that is agreed upon by everybody. Barton, because you've been able to show so much restraint towards your fellow employees and you were successful in your assignment with Miss Romanoff, extra dessert for you tonight."

"Which is it? None, or extra? Or does it all cancel out and I have to suffer with just one?" Clint leaned towards Natasha, speaking in a loud whisper. "He never realizes that I always take three."

"Barton..." Coulson pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's not why we're here. Give me your hand." As Clint obediently held out his hand, Coulson grabbed it and lightly slapped it. "There, your official slap on the wrist for taking Miss Romanoff with you where you shouldn't have. I know how many knives you've got squirreled away in your room, and right now she's not allowed to get her hands on a physical weapon. You get to write up your report, then I get to tear it apart, then you get to rewrite it and we'll repeat the process until I feel that you're actually being truthful. I want it an hour after we're done here, because I want to get some sleep tonight."

"Eh," Clint shrugged. "I knew she'd behave. After all, I've got...something...that she wants." He glanced over at Natasha, a dark glint in his eyes. He reached behind him, pulling out the folding knife he'd been playing with earlier. "I'm learning allll about her." His voice was dark and full of promise, sending ripples up Natasha's spine.

"Clint." Coulson had a warning tone to his voice. "I can still lock you in your room, you know. Or send you off to help the scientists on the range. Maybe head back to train the latest group of recruits. I've options."

Clint sat up straight, knife vanishing. "I'll behave."

Natasha watched the interaction between the two men, eyes wide. This...was not what she had expected when she had decided to defect to SHIELD. She remembered hearing something similar when Hawkeye had brought her into the safe house, but that entire day was still a bit of a blur.

"So," her voice squeaked, making her blush. "So why am I here, if you are yelling at Agent Barton?"

"Because, Miss Romanoff, we have people moving your things into a new room for you right now, and Clint suggested that you were probably feeling a little cooped up." Coulson looked straight at Natasha. "If that is not the case, then we can certainly lock you back up again."

"No," Natasha didn't move a muscle, afraid of saying, doing the wrong thing. "No, it was very nice to be able to go to the gym and go see Agent Barton's school. Can...can I maybe go again?"

"To what?" Coulson raised an eyebrow. "To the gym, or to school? Gym, yes, school, maybe, it's not entirely up to me, and you'll have to ask Clint nicely, preferably in a manner that is acceptable in a public setting. However, I do have some bad news for you."

"Heading off tomorrow." Clint spoke up. "Hopefully'll be back Tuesday, but it all depends on how everything goes. You'll be stuck in your room that whole time, so don't watch all the tapes at once; I was serious about watching American TV to learn all the bad stuff, maybe work on your accent some. For all that you speak English better than some of us natives, it's still really obvious that you're not from 'roun here."

"Yes, the surgery?" Natasha recalled what he had been saying at school.

"Only if I get shot." Clint stretched his legs out, interlacing his hands behind his head. "SHIELD has some...issues...with one of your former bosses."

"Miss Romanoff, maybe you can help us. The information we have can get the job done, but if you can offer something that we don't know, it'll make our lives easier and get us back here even faster." Coulson, and here Natasha was on slightly more familiar ground and subject to what she had been expecting.

Natasha nodded and started answering questions, noticing Clint sitting up and taking notes as she talked. She was thinking that maybe she was starting to understand him. Maybe just a little.

Her new room was right next to Clint's, which she found odd, that they just happened to have a spare room next to his. "Why?" She glanced over at him, as he slouched in her desk chair, pretending to not watch her prowl around the room. It was almost exactly the same as the one she had been in previously, but still felt different. She suspected it was the lack of cameras. And the lock on the _inside_ of the door.

"Why what?" He glanced up at her.

"Why have I been given the room next to yours? I find it difficult to believe that it was just free."

A flash of pain in his eyes suggested that there was a story there. "The previous tenant...is no longer here. It was the most logical." He stood up abruptly, pulling a small notepad and a pencil from his pocket. "Here. Make a list of everything you need, I'll come by tomorrow morning before I leave to pick it up." He scribbled a number on the first page, then slapped the two items down on the desk. "My room phone, in case of emergency." He spun on his heel, leaving the room. The click of the lock suggested that he was done for the night.

Natasha sighed, and went to the wardrobe, flicking through what they had given her. Maybe she could talk them into letting her go shopping.


	4. Chapter 4

Red Room is just a little scared of Hawkeye. Fury appears again.

* * *

Clint had stopped by the next morning, nodded at her request, and took the list of things that she felt that anybody could provide. Everything on her list appeared with her lunch, and she spent most of the afternoon putting things away and watching one of the videos that she'd been given.

By the time Tuesday came, Natasha had watched all the videos, read both books that Clint had lent her, and was quite ready to _get out_. Time had been marked by what was on the television, and the three meals that were delivered to her each day by a pair of heavily-armed guards. There was enough space for her to do some exercises, and she did what she could. So when the door opened late that afternoon, she jumped up from the bed in anticipation.

Clint stuck his head in, bruise on his jaw. "So, want to go for a walk?" was all that he said, with a small smile. She swung in next to him as he started to limp down the hall, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Are you okay?" the question surprised her, and from the look that Clint gave her, it surprised him too.

He shrugged. "Anger management issues on the part of one of your old friends. Hardest part is explaining it to my classmates." He opened a door. "Agent Barton, reporting in because Coulson is a mother-hen nanny who doesn't believe me when I say that I'm _okay_ and just want a really long hot shower and a chance to study, maybe even some ice cream, which he won't let me have unless I came here." Clint grinned down at Natasha, "welcome to Medical. One of my favorite places on this entire boat, tied only with Psych." He winced slightly as one of the medical staff poked at his shoulder. "What?"

"Room three, Agent Barton." the man glanced at Natasha, then started to smile as he looked between her and Clint.

"Hey, eyes on _me_," Clint's voice was low and dangerous. "And that's an order. You saw nothing, heard nothing, remember the e-mail that was sent out? I promised to be good, but promises can _always_ be broken. Understand?" He glanced at Natasha. "Let's go."

She followed him, head held high, into an exam room, where he jumped up on the table and pointed at a chair. "Sit." She sat, watching as he carefully unlaced one of his boots, dropping it to the ground. A couple pieces of paper fell out, and she leaned forward to pick them up. "Leave it."

A brief knock was the only warning they got before the door swung open and a man in scrubs entered. "Agent Barton. What, no Agent Coulson?"

"Nah. Miss Romanoff is getting time off for good behavior, and you don't want to know what Coulson said." Clint's voice was mild. "Incidentally, doctor, remind the staff here that they are to read all e-mails, memos, and smoke signals sent out from their superiors, and follow the instructions and orders contained therein. I will not hesitate to subject any of them to your tender mercies after they've had a chance to experience mine, and that _is_ an order from me to you. Now, if you can just sign my note for Coulson, saying that I do _not_ have anything broken or requiring stitches, and _am_ in fact alive and well, that would be greatly appreciated."

"Doesn't work that way, and you know it, Agent Barton." The doctor just gave Natasha a glance, before turning back to Clint. "And since you already have a boot off, I'm guessing that you are having some trouble with that foot? Can you move it?"

"If I think about it, I can even walk without limping!" Clint sounded proud, childlike, Natasha decided, as she obediently sat and watched everything. When the doctor made Clint take off his shirt, she thought that she realized what the whole "no lookee, no touchee" line he'd given her the other day was about. So he had scars, she sniffed to herself, keeping her face blank. Of course he would, even if she couldn't figure out why some of them were so extreme; even in the KGB and Red Room, surgeons were careful to try to not leave any scars. So why the doctors here weren't as careful, she couldn't understand. She absentmindedly nodded when she was told to stay there while Clint got x-rays taken.

"Hey, ready?" Clint's voice interrupted her contemplation, and she realized that he was fully dressed again and back in control, leading her out into the main room. "Maybe one day I'll tell you about what you're thinking so hard about. But no more looking." He paused, thinking. "Damn." Knocking on a door, Clint opened it and leaned in. "Hi doc. Went on a mission Sunday and just got back. Killed a guy who done needed killing because he pissed me off. Used drugs to do the dirty deed, they aren't letting me use my bow _nearly_ enough these days and it's making me twitchy. Got beat up by dead guy's friend. Killed dead guy's friend with my most favoritist knife in the world. Cleaned said knife. Cleaned some of me. Came back. Put on a clean uniform because Coulson said that even though I didn't care about the blood on my uniform, most folks here don't like seeing bloody people wandering around and I'm _still_ not allowed to scare the tourists. Saw Medical who said that I'm cleared today if only because I threatened to start breaking things since restriction means no gym time even though my ankle is hurting like a _bitch_ right now and they want me on crutches. I may or may not have switched out x-rays on them, and I'll deny ever saying that if anybody asks. No nightmares, problems eating or sleeping, post-killing shakes, or desires to go on a rampage unless somebody starts talking about something that is very much not mission related and that has been dealt with already. Have a super-hot lady who just defines _serious_ sexual tension standing right next to me because she can't be left alone outside her room for now. Please let Coulson know that I did come to talk to you, bye!" He shut the door on a faint "dammit, Barton!" and nodded at Natasha, a satisfied look on his face. "There, all done. Food for Clint and Natasha time."

Natasha couldn't help it, she giggled. "Is this normal for here?"

"Nope. I'm _special_." He nodded again, then leaned down to whisper into her ear. "As you well know, right? Just like you, Natasha Romanoff." He rolled the r in her last name slightly, and the feeling of his breath on her ear made Natasha shiver. Straightening, he continued down the hall. "Don't know about you, but I really would like something to eat that doesn't come in a bag."

The mess hall was mostly empty, and Clint led Natasha through a serving line. Sitting at a table, he looked at her levelly. "So, this is how it's going to work from here on out, as long as you're good. If you're willing to keep on playing a cover, you can follow me around at school. If you want to come tomorrow, we can even go to a mall when I'm done for the day, I've gotten permission. There are some folks here who want to talk with you, pick your brains. Not literally, we save the brain probes for people who resist our diabolical plots." He tapped his fingertips together and cackled like a mad scientist, then sobered up again. "So, I've talked with Coulson, and he's talking with Fury, and right now we're thinking that you might like a bit of a paycheck as a consultant for cooperating with us, and not killing our guys in suits slowly and painfully with their ties because they can be idiots and usually are. Lemme know what you think."

"Are you always like this?" Natasha blurted out. "With the doctors, and Agent Coulson, you are one thing and then another, and then with that man you were another, and you confuse me."

"This is the real Barton, yes. I'm actually quite surprised that he's acting like this." Coulson sat down at the table. "Clint, do I have to start giving you drug tests? I never got a chance to ask you about this earlier."

"Fox, Coulson," Clint was busy eating. "Fox. And not in front of the help, please. And I think I had told you that it's damn tiring, keeping everything straight these days. If I didn't tell you that, I'm tired of trying to keep everything straight. One is no problem, but bouncing between normal and two or three is tricky and might drive me even more nuts and again, _you_ told me to break Natasha out of her funk, which I quite obviously did, one hell of a lot faster than Psych would have. Besides, you give me cookies from who knows where, so if I'm on anything illegal, they're coming from you."

"Incidentally, psych called me. You do need to have an actual mission follow-up with them, what you pulled doesn't cover it."

"Curses, foiled again. When?"

"Right now. I'll stay with Miss Romanoff."

Clint nodded and frowned, standing up. "Just for that, you get to take care of my dishes." He limped off, still frowning.

"I swear," Coulson was muttering. "Six years. After six years you'd think that he'd start to _grow up_." He looked at Natasha. "Miss Romanoff, let's head over to my office, where we can have a talk. We have probably an hour before Clint comes barging in. Thirty minutes, guaranteed, unless he pulls something again."

Natasha sat down in Coulson's office, watching as he held out a box. "Cookie?" He offered. "I promise you, regardless of Barton's smart-ass comment, they are not drugged."

She looked between the box and Coulson. "Thank you," she said, delicately taking one. "I did not think that they would be."

"So, since I knew that Clint gave you the offer, do you have any questions that I might be able to answer?" Coulson was giving her a look, prompting her to be honest.

"First, why cookies?"

"I've been Clint's handler since he walked through the door. It's habit now, more than anything: bribe, reward, threat, punishment. Obviously you know a little bit about him, but what he is in the field is not what he is here."

"Ah. Might I have a second?" Natasha nodded her thanks as Coulson passed her the box. "I did not expect...this. It is confusing. And please, call me Natasha."

"Natasha. You chose to come with us of your own free will; not only that, you asked to come. By doing so, you gave SHIELD an incredible opportunity. Two, actually. First, your defection means that the Red Room lost one of their best operatives, if not their very best. Secondly, you are in a position to help SHIELD learn more about the Red Room, because you have been there for quite some time. You are able to tell us about how they operate at the levels that we haven't been able to get to, you have information locked up tight in your head that everybody would love to learn." Coulson leaned back in his chair. "So what purpose would it serve, keeping you in a detention cell and having you in interrogation eight, twelve hours a day? You have the potential to become a good friend to SHIELD, and friends don't treat friends like criminals."

"What sort of restrictions do I have?" Natasha glanced at the box, thought, and took a third. They were good cookies.

"We ask that you don't go anywhere without an escort, we'll probably lock you in your room at night for a bit longer, and we also ask that you don't try to have your nefarious ways with Clint in public."

Natasha felt heat rising in her face. Ducking her head, she mumbled, "He is...frustrating."

"Yes, he is. Around here, Natasha, we do things a little bit differently than how most places do things; relationships aren't encouraged, but they're not completely forbidden. If you want to, fine, have fun, don't keep people up at night, and keep it professional in public areas. If you don't, tell him now, or else he'll keep on doing what he's doing until one or both of us will want to toss him overboard. If you do start having problems, please let me know. If you think you're going to need to hurt him in any way, again, please let me know." Coulson opened a drawer in his desk, and started looking through it. Natasha heard him muttering about "giving relationship talks to adults, at my age. Ridiculous." He looked at her again. "Hold out your hand."

"Why?" she held out one hand, only to have him put a bracelet on it. A faint click suggested that there was a lock involved. A business card was also placed in her hand.

"Tracking bracelet, one of our own design. We made sure to have a woman on the design team, so hopefully it doesn't offend your sense of style too much, and hopefully it goes with what you like to wear. It's waterproof. Just in case there is some deep programming in you that nobody knows about and you try to take off or get into places where you're not supposed to be. Sadly enough, we'd be able to deal with you attempting to kill any number of SHIELD personnel. With few notable exceptions, we do try to avoid microchipping people. Also a list of phone numbers that you might find useful. If you would prefer, we can give you an ankle tracker, but you're to wear one or the other until we say otherwise. If you do start feeling any urges, please let us know."

Natasha smiled, suspecting that he was referring to Agent Barton, again, with the microchipping comment. Most of Coulson's commentary always seemed to return to the archer. "Agent Barton mentioned a fox to you. What was that?"

"He gave you a copy of the Little Prince, did he not? Did you read it?" At Natasha's nod, Coulson continued, "What do you remember about the chapter with the fox?"

"One cannot see properly with the eyes?" She asked. Coulson nodded.

"Clint calls it the 'you tame it, you keep it' chapter. He made the call to bring you in, he was assigned to get you back to being you, and he is responsible for you until told otherwise. Do _not_ look at me like that, Natasha. Which is also probably why Clint is being so relaxed with you; he's got something running in his head that he hasn't shared with anybody yet. Tell me, what does the Red Room say about him?"

Natasha sat up straight. "Code name Hawkeye, assassin, sniper, spy, has been with SHIELD for a minimum of four years, actual length of service unknown. Real name and personal history unknown. Preferred weapons bow and arrows, followed by knives, then guns. Bow has multiple purposes, multiple functions, arrows are of a wide variety. Able to go undercover in a wide variety of environments. To be considered extremely dangerous, do not approach or attempt to compromise, eliminate with _extreme_ prejudice, heavy accent on extreme. The general thought was that to truly ensure that he was dead would require dismemberment and burning the body parts at least 50 kilometers away from each other, then treating the ashes with lye and salt." She paused, thinking. "He has many more scars than would be expected."

"Interesting. They know more and less than what we thought. Good. If rather disturbing. And he's rather sensitive about some of those scars." Coulson glanced at his watch. "So. Agent Clint Barton, nickname, not full name. SHIELD operative, specializing in assassinations, spying, sniper, works solo unless otherwise told, been here six years. Smart ass, slow to trust, bit of a joker, introvert, keeps everybody on their toes. He has rank enough so that if people give you problems, you let him know and he will deal with it, keep it off my desk unless absolutely necessary. Far more observant than you might think, he was the only one that caught some of the signals that you were sending out, including some that you may not have even realized that you were giving off. Never knocks before entering my office, hopefully that will stop once the new locks are installed. All done, Clint?"

"Yeah." The man in question sat down next to Natasha, holding out a badge. "Here, present for you. Swung by security, got you a visitor's badge." He leaned forward, grabbing the box of cookies. "Mmmm, drugged cookies. Yummy. All cleared by Psych, went and looked longingly at my bow, came here to find you slandering my good name, and I've good reason to be slow to trust, thank you very much. And to ask if I can take Natasha to the range. Your door wasn't locked in the first place."

"Not yet. Slandering your good name would imply that you had a good name in the first place, and I'm going to wait to hear from Psych to find out if you really were cleared or just blew them a bunch of smoke as usual. Now get going, I want your mission report tomorrow morning, and thank you for getting Natasha a visitor's badge. I understand that you're taking her with you tomorrow? What's her cover?"

"Yeah, and long-distance girlfriend. She can also drive me around, if you can fake her a driver's license by tomorrow morning, I can and will drive on this ankle if I have to, but Medical is being a pain about some stuff. Cleared it with professors, as long as we don't have a test, she's welcome to sit in as much as she wants. Hitting up the mall on the way back. Can I expense that?"

"Maybe. Keep receipts. Again, scram."

Clint stood up, taking the box of cookies. Natasha followed him out of the room. "So, Natasha, where to?" He glanced at his watch. "Have thirty minutes, maximum, then I need to be doing some stuff."

"Can you show me around some, then?"

"Sure, I can give you a fast tour on the way back. So, we just left Coulson's current office. Down the hall that way is lots of cool stuff, I'll show it to you another time." Clint kept talking as the two walked.

Stopping in front of her door, Clint stared down at Natasha. "Well. Option time. I've got some stuff to do, namely that mission report and some studying. What would you like to do?"

Natasha thought for a second. "May I stay with you for now? I can watch television."

"Sure." Clint opened the door to his quarters. "I've even got movies, if that sounds like more fun."

As the door shut behind them, Natasha went and sat on the bed, watching Clint. Opening a drawer on his desk, he tossed a remote control at her, then went over to the wardrobe. "Here," he said, pulling a box out and setting it on the floor. "If you want a movie." He reached back in, and pulled out some clothing. "And now for my one greatest wish." He entered the bathroom, and Natasha heard the door lock behind him.

"Damn," she muttered in disappointment, before standing up and going to see what movies he had. Choosing one, she stretched out on the bed, closing her eyes and just listening to the movie and the sound of the shower running.

A finger, ghosting over her jaw and down her neck, made her crack her eyes open, to see Clint standing over her, hair wet, head tilted to one side with a curious expression on his face, as if he couldn't figure out just why there was a woman in his room, let alone his bed. It was almost childlike, Natasha thought. She opened her eyes fully, making him jump. "Different," was all he said, before moving to sit at the desk. Opening his laptop, he glanced over at her. "And here's my mission report secret. Have templates all saved, and then it takes less time because you just have to fix the details. So...death and destruction, enter password because some people are nosy bastards and I'm professionally paranoid, Red Room, leadership, and boom." He started typing rapidly, then paused, opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a cold pack. He adjusted his chair so that he could put his foot up on the bed, carelessly tossing the ice pack on top of it, then returned to typing.

Natasha noticed that the ice pack was only partially on his ankle, and adjusted it so that it was fully on top. "Do you have another?" A second was tossed at her face. "Thank you." She sat up, and picked his foot up, placing the new ice pack on top of a pillow underneath his ankle. She looked up, catching his puzzled glance. "I have found this method works better." She lay back down, looking at the TV, giving his foot a gentle pat.

"Thanks," was all that he said, and Natasha wondered if she heard an undercurrent of nervousness in his tone. It was either that or fear, and she didn't think that the man would be afraid of anything.

She was half asleep when the phone rang and Clint cursed, slamming something onto his desk. "Really? Thought the do not disturb button was supposed to keep this thing from ringing. Barton. Yeah. Look, doc, you want me on crutches, send somebody to my quarters with them, and I'll think about it. It's up, icing. Send a brace along too, then, no way in hell am I letting you put a cast on it for as long as you did last time, especially if I can walk on it and it's not broken. Yessir. Yessir. Nope, not going to apologize about switching x-rays, or even telling you how I did it." He laughed as he hung up the phone. "Well, that fixes that little issue of explaining stuff tomorrow. And _somebody_ has some explaining to do."

"What fixes what, Agent Barton?" Natasha sat up.

"Clint. It's Clint." Again with the nervousness. It intrigued Natasha. "But yeah, vanishing for days at a time and returning injured? Most people there think I'm in an underground fighting ring or am being abused, the rest haven't said anything in my hearing." He laughed, softly, bitterly, reaching for a book on his desk. "I don't try to discourage their assumptions. This time I can just say that I took a tumble down the stairs at the hospital or something." A knock on the door had him shaking his head quickly. "Could you get that?"

Natasha nodded, moving over to open the door, accepting the crutches and brace with a quiet thank you. "Where would you like these?"

"Eh, wherever." Clint had gone back to reading a book spread across his lap, pen in hand. "And your movie is over."

"Do you mind if I watch a second? It is nice, not being in a room all by myself." Natasha placed the brace on the desk, leaning the crutches against the wall by the door.

Clint shrugged. "Sure." He paused, then started to stand up. "Wait one, I should probably clear the bed first, or else Coulson'll get mad. Again." Balancing on his good leg, he leaned over the bed, quickly grabbing several knives and slipping them into a desk drawer. "Okay. All good now." He glanced at her, glint in his eyes. "Be good, mmkay? Would hate to have to...do things."

Natasha didn't respond to the dig and just nodded, stretching out on the bed. For all that she had sat around so much recently, she was tired, and ended up falling asleep. She was woken up by a ringing phone, and Clint's quiet cursing. "Barton. Dammit, Coulson, don't you know what time it is? Aw, shit. Yeah. Yeah, forgot to set the alarm. No, she fell asleep here. Of course. Sure. Thanks." She sat up, realizing that at some point in time Clint had flipped a blanket over her, and glanced over, seeing him rubbing his face. "Running late. Go get dressed, if you want a book or something, help yourself." He stood up, picking up the ankle brace and frowning at it, then headed for the wardrobe. "Seriously, I don't think you want to go two days in a row wearing the same thing, your hair is a total _mess_, and Coulson is on his way over with breakfast and a few things for you. Door'll be unlocked."

Natasha hurried through her shower and paused before returning to Clint's room, grabbing his books and backpack. She stopped in the doorway to his room, seeing Agent Coulson sitting in the desk chair, a bag at his feet, and Clint cross-legged on the bed, quickly eating. A second plate sat on the desk. "Here," she said, holding out the books and bag. "Thank you for letting me borrow the books."

"Natasha." Coulson stood up, gesturing at the desk and picking up the bag at his feet. "Brought you some breakfast. Also have some other things for you; US driver's license, some cash, wallet, purse, and we think these might be the shades of make up you prefer, if you even want to wear any." He spoke quickly, pulling things out of the bag as he went. "You and Clint need to work on your cover story, so start thinking of that. You aren't in any computer systems outside of SHIELD, so please don't do anything that will require us to cover for you."

"He means, don't get us pulled over, don't shoplift and get caught, don't get arrested." Clint had finished eating and grabbed his backpack, putting things into it. "Eat up, finish getting ready. We need to leave."

Natasha obeyed, eating with one hand and poking through what Coulson had brought her with the other. "Thank you." She finished, and followed the men through the halls to the flight deck. A man that she had only read about was standing by the door.

"Director Fury," Coulson nodded. "Natasha Romanoff. Barton, she'll be right behind you."

"Miss Romanoff," the tall man nodded. "Welcome." he paused, watching as Clint slowly made his way to the Quinjet. Holding one hand in front of her, he looked down at her. "We're watching you, understand? Set one foot out of line, Agent Barton has his orders and this time he _will_ follow them. He also has some things for you to work on, a list of questions that you can possibly help us out with." He smiled. "And thank you, for allowing me to knock his ego down some. I _owed_ him."

Natasha nodded. "Yes, sir. I will attempt to answer all the questions you have." She stored the ego comment away for later. "Thank you for allowing me these freedoms."

Fury nodded. "SHIELD can be a very, very good friend, Miss Romanoff, or a very, very bad enemy. You are making decisions that will affect just what SHIELD will be to you." He lowered his hand. "Have an...educational day."

Coulson and Fury stood and watched as the Quinjet took off. "You know, Director, that wasn't very nice of you to leak those videos. They figure out just what you were referring to, you'll have Clint after you, and potentially Miss Romanoff as well."

"It was very, _very_ satisfying, however."


	5. Chapter 5

Natasha goes to school, Clint shares.

* * *

Natasha sat down across from Clint in the back of the Quinjet, taking a careful look at him. "Why do you not stay closer to your school?"

He shrugged. "Sure, it'd be a lot easier, but we don't really have anything within easy driving distance. Can't live on campus full-time, so I prefer to stay on the Helicarrier. Most comfortable, plus there's always the chance that I'll need to go off and do stuff, and the Quinjets can get me to where I've got that car in about an hour usually, less if we push it. If the Helicarrier isn't close enough, I just shift over to our Manhattan base and fly from an airfield there, but that's a lot less easy to work with; I've got quarters there, but it's really just a bed and a place to keep a couple changes of clothes. It also gives the pilots and me a chance to get flight time in, without using the simulators." He glanced up front, at the pilots. "Take a look at what Coulson gave you; there'll probably be questions. There always are, people don't know the meaning of privacy anymore."

Natasha nodded, pulling out her wallet. She dug out the driver's license, wondering just when they'd gotten a picture of her. Taking a closer look, she realized that it was a clever photo manipulation; they'd gotten a picture of her from a few years ago, and changed the background. The address was nothing that she recognized as being part of the United States.

"Standard SHIELD address for anybody who doesn't have a real one. One of them." Clint guessed her thoughts. "Threw me for a real loop the first time I saw it and realized what it meant." He smiled faintly in remembrance. "It's a real place, but all that happens there is that the mail gets dropped off and the agent who really does live there packs it all up, tosses it in his truck, and drives it to a pick-up point each day. No idea why the post office doesn't realize that they're delivering mail to more people than should be able to fit in that house. It's actually out on Long Island, most people wouldn't recognize it."

"I do have a question about your school cover," Natasha was trying to determine which Clint she was seeing. "Why are you using your real name?"

"Why wouldn't I? I'm here for a purpose, and I would like to have my real name on my diploma. Barton isn't a completely unusual name in some parts of the country. So, your cover. Why are you still here? Would think that you'd've returned home after a weekend with your boyfriend."

"Because," and here Natasha looked straight at Clint, thinking quickly. "My clumsy boyfriend fell down the steps at the hospital because he was running and hurt his ankle. He's not allowed to drive for a week at least, so I must."

"Exactly what I was thinking. Good. Bit more. My parents are Mary and Phil Barton. No siblings. Grew up in Kansas, moved when my mom started to get sick. She's got cancer, not really responding to treatments, but it's not killing her exactly, so they just keep on going back in and cutting stuff out, fixing what breaks. How did you and I meet?"

"Staring at each other over guns in an abandoned building?" Natasha laughed, thinking furiously. "We met on the beach over the summer. I came to...Long Island, after the end of Communism in Poland, with my family. I enjoyed living here, they did not, so they moved back. I was over 18, and had a job, so I was able to stay on a visa."

"Good enough." Clint nodded. "Can work on it more later, and the vast majority of people that you'll meet at school won't know the difference between a Russian accent and a Polish one, it's all Eastern European Slavic to them. Sad, that, because they're going into International Relations, but kids these days." He shrugged and glanced up at the cockpit. "We're landing, any last questions or thoughts?"

"Many, but they can wait, mostly." Natasha knew that she'd have to think more on the man that was Clint Barton. "Agent Coulson said that you had a plan. What is it?"

"Naughty, naughty, Natasha." Clint smirked. "Put that on the list of rules for Natasha. No lookee, no touchee, no asking about Clint's nefarious plans and half-formed ideas." He stood up, moving faster than Natasha had expected him to be able to, leaning over her. "Of all sorts." He breathed in her ear, making her shiver, before picking up his crutches and leaving the jet. He got to the end of the ramp, turned, and looked back up. "You coming? Seriously babe, I know dad was pissy this morning, but that doesn't mean that I need to be late!"

Natasha jumped, startled by how easily Clint shifted personas. Standing up, she hurried out of the jet, catching the keys that he tossed at her.

"Biggest rule for driving around here?" Clint asked, sliding into the passenger seat. "Don't be crazy. They've got a couple speed traps on the way to school most mornings. Turn left here."

Natasha drove carefully, following Clint's instructions, taking the time to get into the mindset that she was now a Polish immigrant with a long-distance college boyfriend. It was too hard for her, and instead of trying to assimilate it all, she chose to focus on just being Polish and following Clint's lead. She parked where he directed, turning to look at him. "Sweet," was all he said, climbing out of the car, awkwardly hopping around to grab his crutches from the back seat. She picked up her purse and hurried around to help.

In the classroom, she got a few sideways looks, but she just sat down next to him, and he pulled out his laptop. "Here," he said, pulling up a document, then put his foot up on a chair, and started listening to the lecture. She glanced at the computer screen, seeing that it was all written in Cyrillic: it was the list of questions she'd been promised. She read through them, then decided that listening to the discussion was much more interesting and that she could work on them later.

The end of class presented an interesting dilemma for Natasha. Clint was busy talking with the professor, when two of his classmates walked up. "Hey. Clint showing you around campus? Didn't know he did tours. I'm Jerry. This is Bill."

"Natasha," she replied. "I am Clint's girlfriend." She leaned against the wall, trying to appear casual. "I was in town for the weekend, but am staying longer because he got hurt."

"Yeah? So how'd he get hurt? I mean, he's always vanishing, then comes back with bruises and shit and now he's on crutches? What's up with that?"

Clint was right, Natasha thought. These people are nosy. "It was at the hospital. He was rushing down some stairs and fell. He is just lucky that he didn't hit his head any harder, or else he would have probably ended up sharing a room with Mary, said the doctors in the emergency room. He can be clumsy at times."

"Huh. I like the cage fighting idea better." Jerry glanced at Bill. "So, what's your story?"

"Excuse me? I do not understand your question." Natasha had to remind herself that people would be upset if she were to hurt these two boys.

"How'd you meet Clint? I mean, _Clint_. He's so focused on his family. And, well, he's kinda weird. And _old_." Bill moved around to Natasha's other side, so that she was between the two boys.

"Ran into each other at the beach. Literally." Clint broke into the conversation. "There she is, going for a run, I'm going for a run, and I trip. Made her fall flat on her face, just glad that we were in the sand. Ask her out to dinner as an apology, end up spilling a glass of wine all over her. Totally surprised that she's stuck around. Hey babe, enjoy my class?" He leaned in, giving Natasha a kiss on her cheek, then grinned at all three of them. "Have to admit, best vacation I had in a really long time, got me a _great_ souvenir. Lunch?"

"Please. And yes, the class was enjoyable." Natasha pushed off of the wall, leaning in to give Clint a quick kiss herself. "So enjoyable, I could not focus on my own work. Thank you for letting me use your laptop, by the way."

Clint had a look in his eye that Natasha was starting to suspect was pure mischief. "C'mere, you," he said, dropping one crutch so that he could grab Natasha around the waist and drag her closer, starting to dip her backwards.

She let him drag her forward, but when she felt the dip, she shook her head and resisted, instead reaching up and twining her hands behind his neck. "I do not want to fall, _again_. I think the nurses in the hospital were laughing at us the last time. I _know_ your mother was."

He compensated by shifting his grip, head dropping to kiss her deeply, pulling back with a small smile. "So, lunch?" He didn't release her, though, and rested his head against her's.

"I already said yes." Natasha chided him lightly. "Breakfast was rather rushed." She slipped out of his grip, bending down to pick up the fallen crutch. "Here."

Clint led her to the cafeteria, and they sat down in a quiet corner. "Have about an hour," he said, pulling his laptop and a book from his bag. "Want to start some of that stuff your work sent you?" He pushed the computer across the table to Natasha.

She took the hint, and started working through the list of questions. Most of them were simple, and she was surprised that they were even being asked. The two sat in silence until Clint snapped his book shut. "Time for class number two, and then we can go get you that stuff that you need. Cool?"

"Very."

In the car after Clint's second class, he turned to look at Natasha, and she wondered which Clint she was seeing. "So, shopping? What did you need that SHIELD can't provide?"

"Clothing and something to do."

"Gotcha. So, we're going to go straight out of the parking lot." Clint slouched down slightly in his seat. "So, I probably should have asked you this before, you're okay driving, right?"

The absurdity of the question hit Natasha, and she laughed. "Yes, obviously."

"Good. Keep on going straight, head north on the freeway, you'll see signs. It'll be about thirty, forty-five minutes." Clint then folded his arms across his chest and turned to stare out the window.

* * *

Natasha obediently followed Clint around for another two weeks, resisting the urge to snap at some of his classmates. They weren't pushy, exactly, but there were always questions, and she was the recipient of more than a few looks, both suspicious and appreciative. She didn't understand his physics class, but found his history class fascinating and scribbled him a few notes for his seminar, since they were talking about the end of Communism and the breaking up of the USSR. She'd been there, after all. After the first time that Clint had glanced down and smoothly incorporated what she'd written into the discussion, the professor gave her a respectful nod and even directed a couple questions her way about what she – or her cover story - had experienced.

But most of all, she endured. She endured the curious, thoughtful looks from Clint, the stares in the mess hall that ranged from disdainfully cold to outright hateful, and that were aimed at both her and Clint. She endured Clint's sudden withdrawal from how he'd been acting, his sudden professionalism towards her when they weren't at his school. She endured the endless questions sent to her by the intelligence department, and the fact that they were digging for information that she simply did not know. She spent hours sitting up in bed, staring at the television, wondering just where her life was heading, and drank endless amounts of tea in attempts to stay awake during the day.

Friday, as the two were arriving back on the Helicarrier, Clint looked at Natasha. "Need to bug Coulson for a couple minutes, okay?"

Nodding, Natasha followed Clint to Coulson's office. Clint tried the doorknob, found it locked, and shook his head. "Curses." He knocked.

"Forget your lockpicks?" Coulson didn't seem surprised to see the two. "Or just didn't feel like showing off again?"

"You took them. Remember? So, since Natasha kept _her_ room clean this week, does she get a reward, too?"

"True, I did take them, and haven't decided if I'm going to give them back yet. Natasha has shown that she does what any responsible adult does, which includes keeping her room such that the housekeeping staff is able to clean it, and I have yet to discuss with Natasha about her likes and dislikes beyond what the file on the Black Widow has given us. What are you getting at?"

"Don't take too long, 'kay? Maybe I'll tell you later. Natasha's invited." Clint turned and headed down the corridor.

Natasha turned to follow, only to be stopped by Coulson's voice. "Natasha."

"Yes, Agent Coulson?"

"Come in. Have a few more questions to ask you."

Natasha followed Coulson in, sitting down in front of the desk. "Thank you for letting me go shopping."

"Thank you for not emptying Clint's bank account, as well. Need to get some things set up for you, however, especially since people have stopped reacting and started thinking, and Clint's being a real pain in the ass about this." He placed a file on his desk. "New hire paperwork, don't worry about not having things like a social security number, that comes later, just fill out what you can and bring it to me by Monday. Visa paperwork is already being submitted to the right people, and we'll work on getting you official US citizenship later, if you want." A badge joined the file. "Identification, you can get rid of the visitor's badge. We really aren't sure just what you're going to do for right now besides be Clint's shadow and help us out with information, but we'll see. Maybe some translation duties." A binder was placed on the desk next. "Orientation materials. Normally we make everybody go through an orientation and probationary period, but we don't have any orientations planned for a while and as long as you remember to be polite, it'll all be good, you can go through this at your leisure." Coulson sat back, staring at Natasha. "I'll be honest with you, Natasha. There are people here who aren't happy with you, as you have probably seen. Anything happens, you tell me or Clint, immediately." He pulled a cell phone and case out of a drawer, putting them on top of the binder. "This has our numbers programmed in it, as well as on speed dial; Clint is one, I am two. There is a list of other numbers in the binder, most of which are pre-programmed in there. Tomorrow or Sunday you'll need to go to Medical and Psych, get intake done with them. Ask Clint to take you. You will need to continue wearing the tracking bracelet for now, that's part of the conditions for you to start getting paid as a SHIELD employee. For how long, I don't know. We also need to get you signed off on weapons, do you have any preferences?"

"I prefer 9 millimeters. Do you also have my bracelets and belt?"

"We do, and we'll get those back to you soon. Do you mind if we borrow them sometimes? Research and Development has been drooling over them, but didn't want to do anything until we got your permission. There may also be ways to improve them, not quite sure. But, nobody will have to worry about that for a while, yet. Also, please don't kill anybody, the paperwork involved when one SHIELD employee kills another is not pleasant, I believe it includes assisting the cleaning staff."

"That will not be a problem about my belongings, and I will do my best to not damage anybody or anything as long as they do not try to damage me. Who do I report to?"

"Me. Now, I am quite hungry, and would like some help carrying things." A backpack was placed on top of the desk, and Coulson quickly put the file folder, binder, a notebook, and some pens in it, handing her the new badge and cell phone. "I learned my lesson about this the first time, keep the bag."

Natasha nodded and stood up, slinging the backpack over one shoulder, clipping the badge and phone to the waistband of her jeans, and accepting the box that Coulson handed her.

He led the way to Clint's room, knocking on the door and opening it. "Have a movie?"

"Yeah." Clint had cleaned off his desk. "Friday nights usually mean dinner and movies, haven't had the heart to tell Coulson that I don't need this particular reward anymore." He grinned at Natasha. "Floor or bed?"

"After six years, this is a habit, Clint, not a reward." Coulson claimed the chair, opening boxes, and put his feet up on the edge of the bed.

Natasha slowly sat down on the foot of the bed, accepting what she was handed.

"It's reheated. One of us just goes along for the ride to Manhattan every Friday, gets take-out." Coulson looked at Natasha. "It started because Clint couldn't keep his room clean."

"It was the first time in a while that I actually had a space of my own." Clint shrugged, stretching out on the bed. "And I was a kid."

At the end of the movie, Coulson left. "Don't forget, Natasha."

"Don't forget what?" Clint eyed Natasha curiously.

"I have to do some paperwork and bring it to him by Monday. You are to take me to Medical and Psych tomorrow or Sunday for intake."

"Cool. We can do that first thing tomorrow." Clint suddenly sat up, shoving himself backwards to lean against the wall. "So, my gorgeous Russian tease, do you have any questions that I might be able to answer? Now that they've decided that you can be trusted enough to join the hallowed halls of SHIELD notables such as myself and Coulson?"

"Who _are_ you?" Natasha blurted out, startled by her question and the sudden change in Clint from slightly distant to flirt. She watched, intrigued, as a variety of expressions crossed Clint's face. Surprise, approval, curiosity...fear?

"Who am I. Who is Clint." Clint stared at her. "Better to ask, who am I not?"

"I don't understand."

"I am not normal, have never really been normal. You could say that I started truly training for this life starting at birth."

"Red Room intelligence never suggested that SHIELD started training children." Natasha moved on the bed so that she could face Clint.

"SHIELD, no. Life, yes." Here Clint closed his eyes. "Can you keep a secret? Never mind, your entire life is built on keeping secrets. So. Life of Clint." he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. "I'm from Iowa, a little podunk town that very few people have heard of. Common knowledge around here. Uncommon knowledge – known by _maybe_ five people these days, tops, because I have trust issues and I know it – happens to be that my parents, the town drunks, got themselves killed in a car accident when I was five, sending me to an orphanage. Ran away from there with my brother, who is dead now, to join the circus, where I stayed until I got my clumsy ass tossed in prison. Did my time, went back to the circus. SHIELD drafted me six years ago – they didn't really give me the option to say no."

"You don't have to tell me this," Natasha started to say, only to be interrupted.

"No, I want to be honest with you, it fits in with where I'm going with my half-assed idea that actually quite rapidly became a slightly more whole idea. My whole relationship with Coulson is based on my first year here; he forced me into becoming who I am. It's very, very fucked up on a professional level, but right now I'm the _only_ one here who can really do what I do, so they give me a bit of leeway. Everybody else works in groups of at least four, it's a more military style deal with them."

"Is that why you like the Little Prince and have so many copies of it?"

"Bingo. You tame it, you keep it. He tamed me, he's stuck with me. My entire psyche, who I am, is now built around being loyal to SHIELD first, then Coulson and Fury. My bringing you in was an anomaly, but I had done my own research and saw some things that made me disagree with the intelligence analysis. That entire plane ride back here had Coulson chewing my ass out, followed by a unmatched yelling from Fury and four days locked in here, and I think the only thing that ended up with us _both_ still alive is that you said please, and didn't fight. You were _so_ unlike the Black Widow it shook a few people up."

"I see. I remember a little of your yelling, but most of the day is a blur." Natasha regarded Clint. "Why did Director Fury say that he owed you, and thank me for helping him knock your ego down?"

Clint stared at Natasha. "Oh, the bastard. The one-eyed rat bastard. He owes you a very, _very_ large apology. There were a few videos leaked to damn near everybody of your first week here. Guess he was behind it. And don't be surprised if you don't remember everything about that day; what we gave you can cause some amnesia."

"It doesn't bother me about the amnesia or that people saw. I was more upset because I didn't think that there would be cameras in the room." Natasha shook her head. "Does it bother you?"

"Yelled at more than a few people, had to pull rank quite a bit." Clint stretched. "Now have to figure out how I'm going to make Fury pay for making my life more hellish than it needed to be." He patted the bed next to him. "Get up here, we can watch some TV or something."

Natasha complied with his order, only to have him put his arm around her shoulders and hug her close. "Besides, you need a friend, I need a friend." He glanced down at her uncertainly. "Can we be friends?"

Natasha smiled up at him. "I think, Clint, we can be very good friends." She reached up and pulled his head down into a kiss. "And this is no longer a thank you. This is because I want to."

"Oh, good." He pulled back slightly. "And a thank you note would have been perfectly acceptable, by the way." He kissed her again, before lying down and wrapping Natasha in a hug. She cuddled up against him, enjoying the feeling of not being alone.


	6. Chapter 6

Clint shares his big idea. Natasha gets in a fight, starts showing her attitude.

* * *

The next morning Natasha woke realizing that once again, she was in Clint's bed. Except this time, he was in there with her. She rolled over, and saw him watching her. "Morning, sleep well?" Was all that he said.

"Very." Natasha stretched. "You?"

"It was...different." He sat up. "Last time I had a lovely Russian wench asleep in my bed, I slept in a chair after being up half the night." He leaned over, kissing Natasha lightly. "But Clint wants breakfast."

Feeling brave, Natasha lightly ran her fingers along Clint's side, being careful to not disturb his shirt. "Clint can get his breakfast, if he answers Natasha's question."

"Oh?" He squirmed slightly under her touch.

"Have your little...rules...been changed?"

Clint grinned at her. "Mmmmmm...nope." He tapped her nose with one finger. "Now, breakfast? Then you can be exposed to the diabolical world of Medical and Psych?"

"And you can help me with paperwork," Natasha nodded. "I want clothing that I haven't slept in, though, simply because I can. Thirty minutes?"

When Clint escorted Natasha to Medical, they were told to start in Psych. Clint opened the door, and stuck his head in. "I am very, very disappointed in you, Doc." He reached back and grabbed Natasha's hand, pulling her into the room with him. "Very disappointed. I thought you had that whole privacy thing going on."

"I do. Except when it can affect security." The doctor stared at Clint. "And I didn't tell them, although I _may_ have suggested that you were pulling something, again, to Agent Coulson. It is one of the things that you agreed to, remember. If you don't, I do have it in writing. Someplace."

Clint sighed dramatically, shaking his head. "Still. Very disappointed." He perked up slightly. "So, this is Nat, our latest prize. She needs intake before she can do more than drive me around rather illegally and make the whole world jealous of my good luck." He turned around, leaving Natasha standing there. "No breaking her, that's my job." He left the room, closing the door behind him.

"I thought he was supposed to be on crutches," the doctor shook his head, before looking up at Natasha. "Welcome. I'm Doctor Beeks, psychiatrist for a portion of this nuthouse. Please, have a seat. How are you finding this place?"

"He is, although I suspect that he truly does not need them." Natasha nodded, sitting down in the indicated chair. "It is...different, that I can say. I find that I am enjoying myself greatly, although I am still a little confused by the way that people act around here."

"The vast majority do not act the way that Agents Barton and Coulson do, or even Director Fury at times, so you don't need to worry about that. So. Intake. Where are you from? Ever do something like visiting a psychiatrist before?"

"I am from Russia, and no, I have not. My previous employers tended not to care about their operatives as much as or in the same manner as it appears that SHIELD does."

The psychiatrist regarded Natasha through narrowed eyes. "Ah! Natasha Romanoff. I was told about you. Please do me a favor and let me know if you feel the desire to suddenly turn on SHIELD and steal secrets, maybe we can talk you out of it. We also need to start working on discovering any deep programming that you might have, so you'll be here a bit over the next few weeks, probably. You're also looking a bit more awake than when you first arrived, which I am very glad to see; we were about to start medicating you, then Agent Barton took over. His methods appear to have been rather effective and quick."

"He made me angry," Natasha said delicately. "And yes, I was feeling rather numb when I first arrived; killing children is not something that I found that I enjoyed doing. But I am feeling more like myself now, and have yet to have any desire to hurt anybody here, who have done nothing to me, personally. Yes, there have been many looks, but a look never killed a person, and if people were not upset with me, then I would wonder what sort of place this was."

Natasha found her conversation with the doctor to be pleasant, and was slightly disappointed when he indicated that she was free to leave. "But my door is mostly open, if you have any problems. Have fun, and I'll see you later."

"Miss Romanoff?" Natasha didn't see Clint when she entered the main room of Medical. "Doctor's ready for you now. Room two."

When Natasha was finished with the doctor, she found Clint slouched in a chair with a file in his lap. He glanced up at her. "Done?"

"Yes." Natasha sat down next to him, noticing that he had the paperwork that Coulson had asked her to fill out. "Are you being me?"

"Yep. Kinda. Don't think I could wear your clothes as well as you do." Clint leaned over, pointing at a question. "Coulson did it for me, felt like passing it on. Not much to fill out; this is really designed for American citizens with families. Anybody you want notified if you get killed, maimed, or otherwise mutilated while working for SHIELD? And are you allergic to shellfish? That's the really important one."

"Give that here." Natasha grabbed at the file, taking a look at what Clint had written. With only a couple exceptions, he had accurately filled it out; another suggestion that SHIELD's information on her was much better than she had thought. "It is good enough. Pen." When Clint handed over the pen he'd been using, she quickly finished what she could and fixed what was wrong. "There, done. Let's go see Agent Coulson, and then we can ask if you can show me the range after lunch."

* * *

Natasha took the lead, tapping lightly on Coulson's door before Clint could simply barge in. When she heard the invitation to enter, she opened it, ignoring Clint's slight huff. "All done, Agent Coulson. I enjoyed talking with Doctor Beeks, and Clint assisted me with the paperwork." She ignored Clint's muttered "traitor," glancing over at her...friend, with a small smile. It was odd, to think that she could say that she had a friend such as Clint.

"Thank you," Coulson said as he took the file, motioning them to seats. "We'll get this put into the computers. Clint, how's the ankle?"

"Meh. Doc said I had to use crutches for another week or so since x-rays this morning suggested that it was a bit worse than thought, although I'm thinking that they're pulling something, but if there is a mission, I can go, especially if I'm just sitting on rooftops. Recheck Friday. They're not letting me off the x-ray table anymore until the doctor has had a chance to see them, you traitor, so you can be the one to look into just what the hell is going on with them and what they're doing, because I could've sworn that this was just a sprain but they're acting like it's a fracture. I think that I'd know the difference between how the two feel by now. And I want her."

Both Coulson and Natasha turned to look at Clint. Coulson spoke first. "No real rules against that, yet, but that is most certainly in the list of things that I don't want to or need to know."

"That's a different want, and you know it. I want her as a partner." Clint rolled his shoulders, then leaned forward in his seat. "Been thinking about it since she first asked to come with. She's just as good as I am in some things, worse in some, better in others. Balance, don't you see?" He started to sound excited. "Sure, can't do everything together, that'd be stupid, but frankly, Coulson, there have been a few situations that I could've used somebody like Natasha, and you know it. Bringing in any of the teams wouldn't've worked, they just don't have the skill sets, and trying to do a male-female pair? Damn near impossible, I just can't trust the women here enough to not accidentally break cover if something starts to go wrong, and I don't care how much training they have, they're all pretty obviously fighters at one level. Plus, they're all used to working in groups, not solo, and are only lightly used to working in pairs. But Natasha? She was able to take an incredibly crappy and flimsy cover of Polish immigrant girlfriend and make it _work_, enough so that I got a couple e-mails from classmates asking if she was going to be sticking around long enough to actually _hang out _and maybe even hit up a couple parties. And that was only after three days! A couple guys from my history class were hitting on her the first day, and where damn near everybody here would have decked them or frozen up, Natasha just leaned back against the wall, cool as a damn cucumber, and played along with them and me, even making stuff up on the fly. Classmates're _still_ bugging her, but she laughs it off, even though she probably wants to leave them in piles on the ground, I've seen her getting tense. Reports and that day in the gym say that can fight like a wildcat, but if you actually _look_ at her, she looks like somebody who runs screaming at the sight of a spider." He ignored Natasha's soft snort of indignation. "And if you look at the records we have of the Black Widow, and I'm sure that when she gets evaluated by all the folks here she'll back that up, she's definitely an asset that SHIELD needs to keep around and _use_, more than the current plan calls for."

"That makes sense." Coulson leaned back in his chair. "But you do need to understand, Clint, that most people here aren't going to like Natasha, simply because of what she's done, so that needs to be dealt with before she can even think about doing anything but sitting at a desk or following you around. And that will take some time, unfortunately."

"Sure." Clint shrugged. "I've been hearing rumblings, seen the looks. People aren't very pleased with me, either, that I broke orders like I did, and that I was pushing so hard to get her on the payroll here. The analysts are really pissed at me, guess that Fury gave them a bit of a reaming over the fact that they threw out some data as being pointless that turned out to be what I kept on twigging on. Can't blame them or him, but they fucked up big time, and they know it. As long as you keep on getting me the raw data and _trust_ me, I'll keep on letting them feed me their takes." He pointed at Coulson. "I'm still kinda mad at you, you know, that you didn't trust me about Natasha, but your backing me up to Fury and everything else that you've done since has helped."

"There is one other issue," Natasha joined the conversation, looking straight at Clint. "I haven't been here very long. While you trust me, and Agent Coulson may trust me, people will think, rightfully, that I have not come here with honest intentions. I wanted to leave the Red Room, yes, and was apparently asking for help when I didn't know it. But I still need to discover if there may be programming in my brain that I do not know about, and I do not want to risk anything more than I have until I have worked to discover that; it may take several weeks of work with Doctor Beeks. So for now, I am quite happy to keep on going as we have been."

"Not a problem." Clint slouched down in his chair, propping his feet on the desk. "And yeah, I figured that. But eventually."

"Feet off the desk, Clint. Natasha'll think you were raised in a circus."

"Natasha knows that I was raised in a circus. Natasha knows that I was in prison. Natasha knows that I didn't really have a choice to come here. Natasha knows that I'm all about loyalty to SHIELD, you, and Fury and that her being alive right now was a rather large anomaly in my programming. Natasha knows more than you told her because Clint told her last night."

"Wait, what?" Coulson looked confused.

"Natasha has decided that she's Clint's friend, because both Clint and Natasha needed a friend." Natasha joined in. "Natasha has also decided that she would like some lunch, and is wondering if she is allowed to visit the range now and would like to go to the gym. I'd like to see Clint's skills with a bow, and not in a manner that would get me killed, and it has been a while since I have had the chance to shoot and am in need of practice and exercise."

"You're picking up his bad habits, already." Coulson shook his head. "Clint, please don't teach her any more, although I'm not holding out on that front. Natasha, you are certainly welcome to go to the range with Clint. I've also noticed that your accent is improving, and you're starting to sound a bit more natural with American English. Good job."

"I have lots of free time, and Clint said that watching television would help. That first week, he made me watch a lot of MTV. It was both enlightening and disturbing."

"Good. Clint, I need to talk to Natasha for a couple more minutes, okay?"

"Sure." Clint pushed himself up and out of his chair, moving towards the door. "Natasha, you good?"

"Lovely. I will see you in a few minutes."

As the door shut behind Clint, Coulson stared at Natasha. She squirmed slightly under his frank gaze, not sure what was going on. "Do you have any idea what he's doing?"

"No, not at all. He's a tease one minute, and then I see a flash of fear, followed by the professional Hawkeye. I am confused." Natasha met Coulson's gaze. She was an adult, dammit, and one that was fully trained to deal with men more difficult than one Agent Coulson, first name still unknown. "And before you say anything, I have no intention of hurting him. If one thing that I have learned is true, one does not hurt their friends, one does not hurt those that have placed such trust in them." She stood up and whirled, gracefully, to start pacing the room. "Agent Coulson, I am trained in many different things. I will be working with the psychiatrist to discover anything that may have been left that will be a danger to SHIELD, of which I am sure there _must_ be something. It is how the Red Room works and the KGB wanted us to be; they take innocent people, unmake them, and then rebuild them. Before he was killed, the Winter Soldier was one such person; an American soldier found near a set of train tracks leading to a HYDRA base during World War Two. He and I were sent on several missions together as part of my training, until Hawkeye found the Winter Soldier alone one night and, as far as I know, removed him from this world. The Red Room had to continually fight with the man, because his mind was such that it was hard to break his loyalty to the men that he had worked with; in his sleep he talked about Captain America and Brooklyn, a place that I now desire to visit. I must commend Hawkeye for allowing the Winter Soldier peace at last, that cold night in the snow. Would I like to work with Hawkeye, with Clint, in the field? I don't know, but I believe it could be enjoyable. I have worked in partnerships before, more than just with the Winter Soldier, and it did become easier to do some tasks than had I had to have performed them solo." She paused, not sure that it had translated quite as well as she had hoped. At Coulson's nod, she continued. "I have regrets about some of the acts that I have been told to perform, but not all. After all, I had a very strong loyalty to those that I loved, those that I thought were my family, when I was a child. They would tell me, 'this man, he wants to hurt our Leader, our country, to stop him you must do this,' and I would do that, be it sleeping with him, playing with his children, or burning his house down with he and his family locked inside." She sat back down, hearing an unspoken question in Coulson's gaze. "My past is full of terrible deeds, done by me and to me. I was told that a man was my father when he was not, I was told that my mother was dead. I do not know just who my parents actually were, if they are still alive, or why I was taken away from them. When I was seven, eight, yes, I could have told you all about them, but then the first training was coming to an end and I was made to forget. Today, I am Natasha Romanoff, the infamous Black Widow, she who uses her body to kill, to obtain secrets. I do not know who I was fourteen years ago, before I lost all my memories of my past, including the name that I was born with. Might I have been a little girl, happily going to ballet lessons and reading poetry with her mother and father each night? It is possible. But I was unmade, painfully, slowly, and now I do not know, and I do not _want_ to know, because it scares me to think of what-ifs, to think of a future that is something other than an unmarked grave, to think of love, and that scares me the most, to think that I could love now as I loved as a child. Look at what it did." She paused, taking a deep breath. "I do like Clint as a person. I owe him for bringing me to this point, for seeing what others were not. For, as he puts it, pulling me out of my funk. I like him as a man, for all that he does not want to show his scars, and I cannot yet figure out his true face; he has so _many_. So he has scars, he is Hawkeye, the bogeyman of the Red Room. All bogeymen must have scars, it is a requirement."

"And will you be telling Clint this?"

"Naturally. He has shared with me, it is only right that I share with him, so that he can understand just what, exactly, he is entering." Feeling slightly malicious, Natasha continued, "I will sleep with him, as well, because I _want_ to, in the way that a woman wants to sleep with a man. I will reveal to him my darkest secrets, the ones that give me nightmares even now, because there will be times that I will need to be woken up and have the little child that lives inside all of us reassured that it was only a dream. I can only hope that he shares his nightmares with me so that I can return the favor and better understand Clint Barton, the man. I do hope that we will be able to be friends for a long time." She enjoyed the way that Coulson very carefully did not meet her eyes. She stood to leave. "And so now, Agent Coulson, if you will excuse me, I desire some lunch."

"Natasha, sit down." Coulson's voice was firm. She sat. "That...wasn't quite where I was going when I said that I needed to talk to you, although it was very enlightening and revealed quite a few things that we need to know, thank you. It will also allow us to follow up with the family of the man that might have been the Winter Soldier; we thought that he was Russian. You may want to meet with one of the men that was in Captain America's group; he lives in a nursing home in Brooklyn, ironically enough. Maybe tomorrow you and Clint can go play tourist. And now I've completely forgotten just what exactly I wanted to talk to you about; I'll make sure to write it down next time. But, I want you to promise me something. I want you to promise to be careful, understand? Also...look up what love is. You may find it enlightening."

"Yes, sir," Natasha murmured. She then stood and left the room without a backwards glance.

"Dammit, Barton." Coulson stared at the closed door. "And dammit, Romanoff. Now I have two of you...must have really pissed somebody off in a past life or something." He shook his head, turning to start putting Natasha's information into the computer system. "Here's hoping that she's not as bad as he is."

* * *

Natasha didn't see Clint when she left, and was walking towards the mess hall when she felt her arm suddenly grabbed. "Black Widow." The voice was unfamiliar, and she turned to see somebody that she didn't know holding her arm, in front of a small group. Nobody looked very happy, and a small tendril of fear started curling through Natasha's gut. "We want words with you."

"I am sorry, but I have an appointment to make. Perhaps another time?" Natasha lied, hoping that it would work. As the grip on her arm tightened, the tendril of fear started to blossom into something larger and tinged with anger. Her free hand crept slowly towards her cell phone.

"Don't think so. We know what you're playing, and we're warning you to stop it, right now."

"I do not understand." There. She started to slowly extract the phone from its case, wishing that Coulson had given her one that she could have simply hit buttons through the case itself.

"Oh, you do. And drop the phone." A second hand grabbed Natasha's free one, sending her cell phone clattering to the ground.

"Please, release me." Natasha glanced around, taking measure of the people in the group. No weapons were readily visible, but that didn't mean much. She started working out options in her head, with the ultimate goal of getting her phone and calling for help, then escaping. She let her voice become hard. "Release me, or I will be forced to make you."

"Hah. Like to see you try," the man sneered down at her, before raking his gaze over her body. She didn't move, letting her anger grow. "Besides, we figure that you owe us, for putting up with your shenanigans."

It wasn't until his free hand grabbed her breast that Natasha let herself respond to her anger and finally react. She reached out with her head, grabbing whatever skin she could reach and bit down, hard, as she simultaneously wrapped one leg around his knee and twisted and jerked. He didn't let go of her arm as he started to fall, but that was okay – she needed to be down on the floor. Throwing her head backwards, the person holding her other arm let go as they jumped back to avoid injury. Natasha grabbed for her phone, quickly flipping it open and holding down the button marked 2 – Coulson's office was just as close as the mess hall, but somehow she just knew that while Clint would be hurt that she hadn't called him, Coulson would ultimately be the better choice. She shoved the phone closer to the wall, hoping that it wouldn't get stepped on, as she jumped back up and prepared to defend herself further against these people, cursing at them in as many languages as she could think of.

Coulson looked down at his cell phone when it rang, wondering just who would be calling him on it; most people still used his office phone first, then his cell, and his office phone hadn't rang. Seeing Natasha's name on the screen, he hit the accept button. "Coulson." He heard sounds of fighting, and was out the door in a flash, hanging up and dialing Clint. "Clint. Natasha's been cornered someplace between my office and the mess hall. Start working your way back." Not giving Clint a chance to respond, he hung up and dialed security. "Coulson. Need you to start checking hallways, there's a fight going on. Tell me where Romanoff is."

"_Shit_," Clint swore, as he turned around and started retracing his steps. He should have waited outside of Coulson's office, or right down the hall, but he'd been so damn trusting and didn't _think_..."fuck." Listening carefully as he worked his way back, he thought he could hear the sounds of fighting.

Natasha was able to hold her ground, and was hoping that help would come, soon. Three of her attackers were down, but the two still standing were obviously used to working together and appeared to be the most upset. She kept her back to the wall, but she was starting to get tired. She really should have been trying to get to the gym more, instead of just sitting around. That day, she promised herself, no matter what happened she was going to go use the treadmill until she could barely move.

"Hey!" Clint's voice yelled, and Natasha started to relax slightly. "Does somebody want to tell me just what the fuck is going on here?" He barged into the middle of the group, taking a look at Natasha out of the corner of his eye.

"Not particularly, Barton." The ringleader was standing up from where Natasha had put him on the ground, arm still sluggishly bleeding. "Especially since she's gotten you all tangled up. She has to pay. She killed my team lead! She killed kids!"

"Yeah? Really? And how many Red Room people did you and your team take out? Me, I know I took out several. Don't see her trying to beat me up for that. Other stuff, sure, but nothing that happened before she got here." Clint shrugged. "We're in a war, here, even if it isn't an official one. Death. Happens." He turned to look at Natasha. "Did you like to kill those kids? That hospital fire killed what, a couple dozen? Most of 'em babies of people who had nothing to do with anything? How about Drakov's baby girl? Kinda artistic, what you did there, if you're into that sort of art."

Natasha paled, and shook her head.

"Doesn't mean anything that she can shake her head. Black Widow can fake anything." The man scowled.

"Yeah, she can. But she isn't. She hasn't faked anything since walking through the door of an abandoned building and asking to defect. I can tell when people aren't being honest with me. Reason why I do what I do and you? You're just commo for a team. Now _back off_, and that's an order." Clint's voice was hard and full of threat.

"_All_ of you, back off." Fury's voice cut through the tension that was starting to build again. "Agent Barton, take Miss Romanoff to Medical and make sure that she's okay. The rest of you, up against the wall, you're blocking up my ship." Fury and Coulson were standing there, looking grim.

"C'mon, Nat." Clint muttered with a jerk of his head. Natasha followed. When they were out of hearing of the group, he stopped and looked at her. "I'm sorry."

"What for? We both knew that there would be people upset with me, and I should have been more aware of my surroundings." Natasha shrugged. "I'm sorry for calling Agent Coulson and not you."

"Nah, he was the better choice, especially with that bunch. Are you okay?"

"Bruises, if that, and now I would really like something to get the taste of that man out of my mouth." She thought about spitting, but instead elected to wipe her mouth on her sleeve. "He was less than polite." She reached out and caught Clint's arm when it looked like he was about to start moving back to take his anger out on the man. "Don't. He is nothing, and tastes just as ugly as he looks. Now come, take me to Medical, and then maybe, finally, we can get some lunch."

A tissue was dangled in front of her face. "Obviously, Barton has been teaching you even more bad habits, Natasha. And why are you two just standing here?"

"Mutual apologies." Natasha accepted the tissue from Coulson with a nod, spitting into it, then wiping her mouth off some more. "I called you, not him, and he is upset with himself for some stupid reason that I will get out of him later, once I can eat. Human flesh and blood is not an acceptable meal, and I am hungry." She allowed herself to snap at the men, then started walking.

"Yanno, Coulson, think she lives up to the stereotypes of Russian women _and_ redheads?" she heard Clint mutter. She flipped him off, hearing them both laugh.

Coulson hadn't followed them all the way to Medical, mentioning that he'd bring them some lunch so that they didn't have to visit the mess hall, and Natasha simply walked in, informed the doctor that if she had any problems from being groped by a rude buffoon, that she would return, and started to walk out. Clint reached out and grabbed her arm. "Nope, c'mere you. Doc, she bit this guy pretty decently, need to worry about his blood? You'll probably be seeing him, soon, looked like he needed stitches."

Rolling her eyes, Natasha followed the doctor's orders to rinse her mouth out, then accepted the medications that he handed her, as well as suffering through a second blood draw of the day. She wasn't quite sure if she would follow the doctor's directions or not, but from the way that Clint was looking at her, she wasn't sure that she would have any option. "You refuse to follow orders from the doctors, and yet start to smother me. Why is that?" She glanced at him as they walked to their rooms.

"Ankle that doesn't hurt anymore, versus stuff that could be running around in his blood. You might not need to take all those, they can get kinda nasty sometimes with the side effects. SHIELD takes care of our own."

"They do, do they."

"Okay, point. Some people here are total asses, and you had the bad luck to meet that bunch. Their team leader died recently, a raid gone wrong, and there was also an analyst mixed in with that group; he must've been one of the ones assigned to you. Were you anywhere near Mongolia two months ago?"

"No. I was in Moscow. So they were the ones that attempted to take down the research lab? They were spotted approaching two kilometers out by a security guard."

"See, that's why we need you." Clint opened his door and waved Natasha in. "You know all this stuff from the other side of the gun, and can only help us improve our methods."

"Ah." Natasha sat in what had become her usual position at the foot of Clint's bed. "So, because I do not feel like wondering all afternoon, why did you feel the need to apologize?"

"Meh." Clint shrugged, wandering over to his bookcase.

"I will get it out of you, and not in a manner that you like. Do not start feeling guilty that you were not there, cannot be there every time and I do not like being mothered without reason. That was not reason enough. And if you were apologizing for what you asked me? Don't. They are questions that I have asked myself, and am willing to answer with some time to prepare for the memories."

Clint glanced at her with a small smile. "Always seem to end up with the ones who don't like coddling. You and Coulson. 'Course, I'm kinda the same way. Maybe one day I'll teach you the joy of a good worry, or having a friend who does a good worry. I'm still working on Coulson. And yeah, I should've waited for you."

"That's because I rarely get hurt, sick, or require your particular brand of hovering, Clint, outside of that one rather minor car accident." Coulson was standing in the doorway, tray in hand. "I have lunch."

"That's because it _wasn't_ a minor car accident, Coulson. So, Nat, sandwich or salad?"

"Salad, please. And do not call me Nat."

"'Kay." Clint was smirking, pulling apart his sandwich. "Tasha."

"I _will_ hurt you."


	7. Chapter 7

Bit of Natasha whump, she gets to be pushy, Clint gets his thank you. Hinted at resolving UST. The author likes to hint.

* * *

Monday morning, Natasha took a critical look at her hands and arms as she was in the shower. Good, no bruises, she could wear short sleeves. Getting dressed, she picked up her purse and slipped out her door, lightly tapping at Clint's, then heading towards the mess hall when he emerged without a word, acknowledging his laugh with a smile of her own.

"Bar fight, really?" At Coulson's voice, the two looked up to see him sitting across the table. "Thank you for not getting arrested, but a bar fight? And taking an eighty-something-year-old man out to said bar and getting _him_ involved in said bar fight? I'm not quite sure I even want to know just what you two had the poor man doing in that fight, or if I want to allow you out together without a chaperone anymore."

Clint grinned. "You should see her when she fights off the drunks. Poetry in motion, I tell you." He took a drink of his coffee. "Dum Dum agreed. Especially when she took out that one guy that was three times her size. That hat she's wearing to perfection? He gave it to her. His hat! Nurse said that he never gives away his stuff!"

"Dum Dum would have agreed to anything, once you started buying him beer, even though the nurse said that he wasn't allowed." Natasha shook her head. "And I was covering for _you_. It wasn't very nice that you tricked those men into playing darts, and then made _me_ clean up. Plus, I like the hat. It's fun. Vintage. Besides, he said it looked better on me than it ever did on him." She dug in her purse. "Oh, yes. He wanted me to give this to you, Agent Coulson." Pulling out a small case, she pushed it across the table towards Coulson. "One Captain America trading card, it had only a small number printed and Dum Dum got one of the first."

"Thank you." Coulson nodded, picking the case up and placing it in his pocket. "Natasha, I also have something for you." He pushed a small knife across the table, followed by her bracelets. "Please don't kill anybody without cause."

She nodded, placing the weapons into her bag. "Thank you."

Clint's hand was shoved in front of her face. "I did help. See? Hurt my finger!"

"You did that on the range, I saw you." Natasha shook her head. "I was wondering, Agent Coulson, if you had anything else that I might be able to do today while Clint was in class."

"We have questions that we still want to ask you, but what were you thinking?"

"I am interested in learning," she nodded. "Anything, really."

"I'll see what can be done," Coulson was obviously thinking, "but it won't be today."

"Thank you," Natasha smiled slightly, finishing her breakfast.

* * *

Pulling into the school parking lot, Natasha glanced over at Clint. "Do you mind if I walk around campus while you're in class?"

"Not a problem, as long as you don't mind me putting an alert up to make sure you stay close. Have your phone?" Clint reached over, fingering Natasha's bracelet as she nodded, before spinning it around to look at a number. He pulled his wallet out, and handed Natasha a card. "Here, if you end up in the library and want to borrow a book or two, or if you want to go grab a snack, I keep some food money on it. Oh, yeah." He scribbled on a piece of paper, ripping it in half and handing part to Natasha. "Here's my username and password, too, if you need to look anything up in the card catalog in the library or want to go online."

Natasha entered the school bookstore, taking a careful look around. Pulling out her wallet, she fingered through the cash that she'd been given, then quickly made her purchases. Borrowing a pen, she scribbled a note in the card, sealing it and tucking it into her purse, slipping the sweatshirt on. She started feeling an odd sensation, so she forced herself to go to the library, walking through the stacks until she found a book to read.

She was sitting in a chair by a window, when a voice over her shoulder made her jump. "Hey babe." Clint swung around, sitting on the arm of her chair. "Having fun?" He eyed what she was wearing. "Nice sweatshirt. Next time if you're feeling cold, come borrow my coat."

Natasha nodded, trying not to blurt out anything that would blow Clint's cover. "Mostly. The bookstore here is so expensive, though, and I didn't want to just walk into the middle of your class." Her finger started tracing a pattern on the page that she had been trying to read. A sudden stiffness of Clint's hand on her shoulder told her that he had seen it, and the book's subject had finally hit. "So, lunch?" She kept her tone deliberately casual.

"Actually, had a text from my dad, need to run home." Clint took the book from Natasha's hand, closing it and putting it on a table. He took her purse, sticking it into his backpack, before glancing over at her. "Don't think it's an emergency, but better safe than sorry."

"Okay." Natasha stood up, and followed Clint to his car.

They were about a mile down the road when he looked at her. "Pull over, I'm driving."

Her only response was a sigh of relief as she complied. "Thank you."

Clint nodded as he slid into the driver's seat, pulling out his cell phone. "Coulson. Barton. We need a pick-up, then a Psych visit. Yeah. Yeah. Don't know. Yeah. Will do." He looked over at Natasha. "I don't want to have to tie you up unless I have to. Do I have to?"

Natasha shook her head. "I just feel an urge to get to a computer. A need. Although how far I could get in is questionable, I am sure that SHIELD's security is high."

Clint nodded as he pulled into the airport. "Out of the car, sit on the hood." He locked his backpack in the trunk, then sat on the hood next to Natasha, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Guess you were right."

She relaxed into the hug, leaning her head against his shoulder. "I would like to meet that group again, after I have had a chance to regain some of my stamina. Then I will show them." Her voice darkened. "I would also like to meet whoever did this to me, and make him pay, very, very painfully."

"I might have already done that." Clint's tone was mild. "That former boss? We think he was in charge of Red Room's department of creating crazy people who like to do things that they don't know about, or at least pretty high up in the ranks there. Sorry that I couldn't drag it out for you. Next time I'll wiggle the needle? Besides, you took out three of them Saturday, and would've probably taken down the last two if you'd had more time. There wouldn't've been any sort of contest had we gotten you your bracelets back faster. Sorry 'bout that. Although thank you for not killing any of them, if nobody's said that to you yet."

That forced a small laugh out of Natasha. "Thank you, Clint. It is nice to have somebody who will worry." She sighed. "I need to talk to you, later." She felt him stiffen slightly, and patted his knee. "It will allow you to continue to worry needlessly. I want to be your partner, yes, because working with a partner is much easier than working alone for some things, but there are things that I should tell you. Tonight? If I am able, I want to go to the gym this afternoon."

"Cool." He relaxed. "Ride's here."

"It is?" Natasha sat up straight, looking around. "I do not see it?"

He grinned at her, tapping next to his eye. "Hawkeye is not just because I'm good with a bow." He slid off the hood as the jet landed and Agent Coulson stepped out. "Hey. Nothing happened, but better safe than sorry."

"Natasha," Coulson was focusing on her. "Talk to me."

"I was told to tell somebody if I felt any urges to work against SHIELD. I felt a need to access a computer and the desire to hack into what I suspect is SHIELD's databases; how I could have done that from a college campus I do not know. I told Clint as soon as I could, and he made the decision to return and called you."

"Still feel it?"

"Yes, very. It is rather irritating. And it _itches_." Natasha felt a hand on her arm, and looked over at Clint. "Into the jet?"

"Yep." Clint nodded at her. "Coulson can get our stuff." He led her into the back of the jet, pointing her to a seat next to the door, sitting down right next to her. "Best part about all this? I get out of my seminar, _again_."

Natasha giggled lightly at the annoyed tones in Clint's voice. "I'm sure I can make it up to you." She bumped Clint's shoulder with her own. "Agent Coulson, could you go into my purse for me, and remove the envelope in there? Thank you." She handed the envelope to Clint.

He opened it, curiously, then smiled as he read the card. "You're welcome?"

Natasha shrugged. "You said that a thank you note would have been acceptable. That is a thank you note." She shifted slightly to lean against Clint, trying to get comfortable, and closed her eyes, letting the vibrations lull her into a slight doze.

* * *

"So, guess you had that urge, huh?" Doctor Beeks leaned back in his chair, staring at Natasha, Clint lurking in the background.

"It is annoying." Natasha crossed her arms across her chest with a frown. "And it made Clint miss his class this afternoon, over a little yet persistent desire to hack some files."

"Alright. Agent Barton, do you have your laptop with you?"

"Um, doc?" Clint moved forward, "you sure that's a good idea? One, clearance levels, two, general security?"

"Positive. I was given the heads-up when you called Agent Coulson. Laptop, please?"

When the laptop was placed in front of Natasha, she quickly started working, as the tightness in her chest eased. Clint stood behind her, carefully watching, as she browsed through his personal files, easily bypassing his passwords, copying some things and ignoring others, then attempting to break through the firewalls on a few SHIELD files, with no success. A glance at the clock led to a quick shake of her head and Natasha pulled up Clint's SHIELD e-mail. With a fast look at him, she sent an e-mail, before relaxing. The feeling of ants crawling all over her skin was gone, leaving her feeling tired and relieved.

"Was that...to my school e-mail?" Clint's voice made Natasha smile in relief. The disbelief she heard made her laugh. "And were you trying to get at the _menus_ for the next month? Not quite sure if I'm happy with how _bad_ my personal security seems to be."

"Better?" Doctor Beeks' voice had the two of them looking up. "Clint, we didn't tell you, but there was a suspicion that something like this would happen, and we actually had some things rigged up if she really did try to get where she wasn't supposed to."

"But, emailing _me_? And _menus_?"

"Natasha has zero conscious loyalty left to the Red Room, that much was determined the very first day I met her, and I, along with quite a few others, would love to know just what caused that sudden change, because we don't think that a couple bad assignments would've been able to do that much. If she has loyalty to _anything_ right now, it's most likely you, we're really not quite sure. The problem is this subconscious programming will make her want to do things like this, so it's really a matter of letting her get it out safely. If it helps, think of it more as an addiction; something that won't kill her right away, but could have some detrimental effects if she doesn't feed it."

"Are you saying that I am a junkie?" Natasha arched one eyebrow at the doctor.

"If that's how you want to see it, sure. Not quite the same thing, but close enough. I'm thinking some hypnosis, see if we can't winkle it all out, but as long as you keep on letting somebody know if you're having problems, we can handle it."

"So, doctor, what about the urge that I am feeling to become creatively violent on a select group of SHIELD employees?"

"Mmmm...Clint, how's that ankle? Think you can take her on?"

Clint dropped into a chair, nodding. "Oh yeah. And _that's_ because of an incident over the weekend." He prodded Natasha's shoulder. "You remembering to take those meds?" He laughed at Natasha's face of disgust.

"Ah. In that case, not my problem, unless you make it my problem. Natasha, I want to see you tomorrow, whenever Clint's free to stick around for an hour or two. Good?"

Natasha nodded, standing up. "Thank you, doctor. Clint, gym? I will even wait to spar with you again until later."

* * *

That night, Natasha made Clint join her in her room. The two stretched out on her bed, TV on, and Natasha thought about how she wanted to work the conversation. "So," she finally said.

"So?" Clint replied, sounding curious.

"This is a conversation that I promised Agent Coulson that I would have with you. And sooner started, sooner finished." Natasha snuggled down lower in bed, leaning her head against Clint's shoulder. "What do you know of the Red Room and how they train their operatives?"

"It isn't pretty...they like to start with kids, because it's easiest to mold the little ones. We're really not sure how young they'll start."

"I was seven when I first entered the halls of the Red Room, following a man that I thought was my father. I cannot remember anything from before that moment, and even that time is hard for me to recall. I don't even know if Natasha Romanoff is the name that my birth parents gave me...but it is my name now. Their methods include breaking down who a person is, unmaking them, and then remaking them into a soldier, spy, whatever is needed." She sighed, feeling Clint's arm tighten slightly around her back as he tensed. "It's been long enough, I don't care anymore. I do not have any curiosity about what might have been, who I was, because to think about it scares me. I am who I am today."

"I see." Clint shifted, resting his chin on the top of Natasha's head. It was comforting, Natasha decided.

"One thing that I have decided, though, is that love is for children and the innocent, not a person like me. I did terrible things in the name of love for many different people. Agent Coulson told me to look up the definition of love...I haven't done that yet, but I don't know if I can change my mind, I do not know if I can love anymore, I feel so full of hatred for my past, for myself, for having enjoyed most of the destruction that I caused, the way that I stole secrets." She forced her way out of Clint's grasp, sitting up and looking down at him. "If, after hearing this, you do not want me as a friend, as a partner, I will understand."

Clint's response was to snort softly, grabbing her arm and pulling her back down. "Fuck the past, that's what I say."

"I have a lot of large sins to pay for; I don't think I can say that."

"So, we'll work on clearing all that red out of your ledger, no biggie. It's possible." Natasha felt Clint shrug. "Sure, you did a lot of bad stuff. But, I've done a lot of bad stuff too. You can't go around hating yourself; it's not possible to stay full of self-hate and not end up eating a gun. And you know what? I don't care. Honestly, I don't know love, either, at least, not what most people consider to be love. Me, with a girlfriend? Or a wife and kids? Only if it's part of a cover. Although I do love working here, I'll admit that." He laughed softly, and Natasha felt the vibrations in his chest. "Think I know a little of what Coulson went through, now."

Natasha breathed a sigh of relief at the overt lack of rejection. "And now, Clint Barton," she whispered, moving to look at his face, "I have to tell you this, as well. Fuck. Your. Scars. You are Hawkeye, the bogeyman of the Red Room, and I have yet to hear of a bogeyman without scars." Sitting up, she pulled off her shirt. "Everybody like us must have scars, see?" She twisted slightly, showing a faint scar running across her side. "Most scars will fade, the ones that don't are medals, showing that you've survived." She squirmed, as Clint ran one finger over the scar that she was showing him. It was a light enough touch that it tickled.

"Mine...weren't earned in a fair fight, Natasha." Clint sounded distant. "It's something that I don't like to talk about, still haven't totally gotten over it."

"Fair fights are only fair if _you_ have the drop on the other person." Natasha countered. "Fights are only fair if you walk into it knowing that you're going to win."

"Huh. Never thought of it like that. Still, not talking."

Natasha moved to straddle Clint's waist, staring at his face, slowly leaning forward. "Okay." She kissed him. Sitting back, she stared down at him, enjoying the slightly dazed look on his face. "Now, am I finally going to get to do what I want to with you, or will I have to tie you up and have my wicked, wicked ways without your cooperation?" Her fingers ghosted over his chest. The small glimpse of warning and tension that she saw gave her an idea, and she swiftly reached out and turned off the light. "There," she whispered, "better?" The television sent faint flickers of light through the room, making it hard for her to see details.

Clint was staring at her. He reached up and grabbed her sides, holding her steady as he sat up, wrapping her in a hug. "Better," he nodded. Natasha grabbed the sides of his head, angling in for a kiss. "_Much_ better." His hands squeezed her sides lightly, before he pulled back and took off his own shirt, grabbing Natasha again. She responded by pushing him back down onto the bed, running her hands over his arms and chest, kneading at his shoulders. "_Damn_, Nat," he whispered. "Have I told you how hot I think you are?"

"Shut up," Natasha purred, feeling triumphant, "and show me." She let challenge color her voice. "I've been wanting this for _weeks_, and I'm _going_ to get what I want." A teasing note, now, as she sat up slightly. "Think of how well it'll help your school cover. Natasha from Poland has been eyeing a couple of your classmates, after all."

"Wench." Clint grabbed the back of her head, humor in his eyes, dragging her in for a hard kiss. "Me too."


	8. Chapter 8

Clint's not always a morning person. Natasha gets some deep thoughts.

* * *

The next morning, Natasha was awake, enjoying the fact that for _once_ in her damned life she'd slept with a man because she wanted to and not because it was an assignment, and _liked_ it to boot, when a phone rang. She didn't move, feeling the bed shift as Clint rolled over, turning on the light. "Barton," he mumbled, sounding asleep. "Yeah. Nat's room. 'kay. Bye." He rolled back over, burying his face in the back of Natasha's neck and wrapping one arm around her waist. He was still holding onto his cell phone. "Plan. Daddy Coulson need car. Wanna come ride?"

Natasha swallowed a giggle as she deciphered what Clint was asking. "Why not. How long?"

"Dunno. Don' care. Sleepy."

She couldn't prevent the laughter from bubbling up anymore. She shifted, allowing the movement to turn into a stretch, before rolling over and lightly kissing his nose. "Time to wake up, Clint. Unless you want Agent Coulson barging through my door? I don't think he'd appreciate seeing us in bed like this, as much fun as it would be to make him blush."

He made a face, opening one eye and staring at her resentfully. "Wench. Ruin happy dream."

"Hungry," Natasha corrected. "And needing a shower."

"Wench." Clint pulled the sheet over his head. "G'wan."

Natasha just slid out of bed, wandering over to the wardrobe and pulling out some clothing. She glanced back at the bed, seeing Clint start to untangle himself from the bedding as she slipped into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her with a firm click.

* * *

Natasha had come to the realization that when she and Clint ate in the mess hall, they always chose an empty table, and they would always sit with their backs to the wall, each watching over half of the room. She wondered if that meant anything, that they were slipping into these practices so easily, or if it was just habit on both their parts. Sipping at her tea, she glanced over at Clint, who still looked half-asleep. "Do I need to apologize for keeping you up half the night?"

"No." Coulson sat down across from the two. "So, plan for today. Clint, don't say a word, you won't make any sense. Technically, Clint can't drive for the rest of the week, for some damn stupid reason from Medical even though I finally got them to admit that they're pulling this in some sort of twisted revenge for who knows what, so I'll be dropping him off at school. Clint, I'm clearing you for tomorrow because I'm tired of this. Natasha, you are more than welcome to come along for the ride. I need to visit another base, it may be interesting for you. We also have a new set of questions for you to answer; I think that Intel is finally running out of things to ask."

Natasha nodded. "I certainly hope so. They are getting boring and repetitive."

Clint shook his head, suddenly appearing awake. "Don't forget, Tasha, we've got that appointment with Psych this afternoon, too. And last night..._definitely_ not your fault."

"He said whenever you were free, so we can go whenever." Natasha shrugged. "And don't call me Tasha."

Clint just grinned at her. "Yes'm." He looked over at Coulson, nodding firmly. "I'll wear her down eventually. Hey!" He theatrically winced as Natasha bumped his shoulder with her own.

"That didn't hurt." Natasha lightly scolded. She looked at Coulson, curious. "While we are on the subject of names, what is your first one?"

Coulson looked surprised. "Phil."

"Ah," Natasha nodded. "Thank you, Agent Coulson. I was curious."

Coulson focused on Clint. "Clint, have something for you this weekend. Local, just need your eyes and your strange appreciation for art. New exhibit opening at MOMA, gala is Saturday, have reports that somebody we need to have a firm discussion with will be there. Details will been e-mailed to you as soon as I get them."

Clint nodded. "Cool." He paused. "Do I have to wear the suit?"

Coulson nodded. "Yes, you have to wear the suit. Quite a few people are going to be wearing suits, since this guy really needs to be identified and detained, so we've taken over security and part of catering." He looked at his watch. "Need to get moving."

"Hate the suit. Never fits right, can't move..." Clint was grumbling as he collected his and Natasha's dishes, walking over to the tray return, then to the drinks station, before returning to the table.

Standing up, Natasha accepted the cup that he handed her. Coulson watched, a neutral expression on his face. Seeing his look, Natasha shrugged. "When one spends so much time eating with somebody else, one can learn what the other likes."

"She likes scrambled eggs, even though I think that they make 'em from powder here. And toast with honey." Clint spoke up, his own cup in hand and backpack slung over one shoulder. "And hot tea with lemon."

"He likes pancakes with all sorts of disgusting things on the side, and coffee with one sugar. Two, if it is a large cup."

"Bacon and sausage is not disgusting. Sure, the syrup here is the fake shit, but I give 'em a pass on that because getting the real thing for so many people can get really expensive."

"Yes, but then you start adding more things in, and I cannot understand that. Plus, the meat that they offer looks slimy and greasy. The eggs are not fake, and are mostly fresh."

The two continued to bicker amicably until the Quinjet landed, then their conversation shifted from SHIELD topics to potential weekend plans and who had to sit in the backseat. Coulson just watched, silent.

"Thank you." Coulson's voice startled Natasha. The two were driving back to the airport, and Natasha had been staring out the window, listening to the news station that Coulson had pulled up on the radio.

"Pardon?"

"You haven't been here very long, and you've given Clint something that he hasn't had for a while, if ever. A close friend, and one that he trusts enough to be asleep in the same room with. I've been working with him for six years and think that I understand him pretty well. But you...one month, and you could probably tell me a few things about him."

Natasha shrugged. "It is part of who I am. I watch for patterns, and routines, and then I attempt to work with those patterns and routines to do whatever it is I am assigned to. Knowing what he likes to eat is not difficult. As for sleeping...I am sorry, but I am female, close to his age, you are not. What to purchase him as a gift, that I would have difficulty with."

"Movies, music, books. When in doubt, a gift certificate is always good. It's also nice to see that you're able to work together, at least slightly." Coulson parked the car, shutting it off.

"Thank you for the suggestions." Natasha climbed out of the car, heading for the jet. "So, Agent Coulson, where exactly are we going?"

"D.C." Coulson nodded to the pilots as he entered the jet. Sitting down as the jet took off, he looked at Natasha. "So. Wig, or dye?"

"I don't understand?"

Coulson smiled slightly. "Clint gets to go in as a guest, and figure that you might want to go as well, just to avoid too much boredom, help you keep your skills up, and he did make a good point about needing somebody that could work formal situations with him, and this isn't something that we're worried about any disaster striking or you doing anything at. However, we'd rather that you not draw any more attention than absolutely necessary, and your hair can be rather eye-catching. Tony Stark should be in attendance, and he's very good at staying the center of attention, but that's not a guarantee. So, wig or dye?"

"Wig, then. I'd rather not dye my hair if at all possible; I've yet to find one that actually washes out as fast as it claims. Am I to assume that it is formal dress, and that you've a list of stores that I can visit?"

When Natasha saw the security guard assigned to go shopping with her, she turned to Coulson. "No. I cannot go around to the stores I need to visit with a man who can't even wear a suit correctly. Find me somebody else, or I will simply wait and go with Clint." She ignored the guard. After rejecting two others, she sighed. "Agent Coulson, are there any _females_ that I can go shopping with?"

"Only if you agree to take one of the guards with you, Natasha. Those are the rules. I understand that you'd probably feel more comfortable going with Clint, but I'm trying to not let him get any idea of what he's going in as until the very last minute, simply because I don't want to put up with his complaints. But yes, there's a couple women here that should be free and able to go with you."

Natasha sniffed. "I will tell him, then. And I will make it so that he cannot object." Nodding at the guard, she turned and sailed out of the building, only stopping to look back. "Well? I cannot purchase everything I need at a single store, and we don't have nearly enough time!"

Finding a wig presented a second problem for Natasha, simply because the only ones she could find looked cheap. Finally, she sighed, looking over at the guard and the secretary that was with them. "My apologies. This is an exercise in futility, let's keep going."

"Success?" Coulson was waiting when the trio returned, glancing at his watch. "We need to get moving."

"Mostly." Natasha followed Coulson to the waiting car, with a nod of thanks to the guard and the secretary. "Susan was very helpful."

"Here," Coulson handed Natasha a pile of papers and a pen once they were in the Quinjet. "The questions that Intel had. Give you something to do."

Natasha nodded, starting to write down her answers. Seeing that they were the same ones that she had been asked before, she chose to write her answers in a mixture of Cyrillic, French, and German. "I apologize in advance for any anger that the intelligence department may have. These are the same things that I have been asked before, and I'm getting annoyed with them."

Coulson moved to look over her shoulder, taking a glance at the papers. Shaking his head, he went to sit back down. "If you want to complain, I'll take care of that. They should have stopped asking some of this stuff two weeks ago."

"Please," Natasha nodded, as she followed Coulson to the car. As he drove, she flipped through the papers, looking for questions that she didn't think had been asked. Those, she answered in English.

Clint was waiting, slouched against the side of a building. When the car stopped, he threw himself into the backseat, waving at a couple people, and leaning forward to give Natasha a kiss on the cheek. "So, have fun?"

"Lots," Natasha nodded. "You?"

"Eh, same old. Seminar group was actually okay with me missing yesterday, once I blamed you. Think they like you more than they like me." Clint shrugged. "But, it's almost over, so whatever."

Natasha turned slightly to look at Clint, ignoring Coulson's slight headshake. "So, Clint. I feel like coloring my hair. Brown, or black?"

"Huh?" Clint looked confused.

"I am female. It's allowed." Natasha shrugged. "Agent Coulson suggested it, as well, especially if you were to take me out to...how did he put it? Ah yes. Play tourist. While you may have to work this weekend, I would still like to spend more time visiting places before that, and he said that a level of disguise is always a good thing, at least for right now. So, brown, or black? I would cut it, but I don't want to." She very carefully did not laugh at the confused look that Clint was still giving her, nor at the way that Coulson was focused on the road, muscle twitching in his jaw.

"Um," Clint started. "Don't know?"

"Shame." Natasha turned around to sit facing forward with a small shrug. "I shall flip a coin, then, and you won't get an opinion." She allowed herself a small smile at the perplexed look on Clint's face as she went back to the questions.

On the jet, she continued working on the questions, ignoring the way that Clint was glancing between her, Coulson, and her shopping bag with growing suspicion. "Idiots," she muttered, "why would I know where heavy metals are obtained?" She felt Clint move to sit next to her as she started to write insults as her response, shoving her hair back from her face roughly.

"Tricky Natasha." he reached over, taking the pen from her hand. "And keep it red." He physically turned her and started to braid her hair. "There are better places to get wigs than D.C. Manhattan, for one." He finished the braid, twisting it up and around, securing it with the pen in a bun. "Didn't think that they'd let you out for anything undercover for at _least_ another few months, let alone as a guest at a big fancy gig."

"Yes, well," Natasha turned to face Clint. "I was told that you might appreciate a companion, and you did say that you didn't trust anybody to maintain a good cover." She shrugged. "Besides, we can laugh at Tony Stark's antics and try to understand what the artist says the artwork means." She felt at her hair. "You were a hairdresser?"

"Nah, just helped a few folks out at the circus. Surprised that I remember how to do that." Clint looked over at Coulson. "She's good, you know, almost had me. You were the one that spoiled the surprise. Read the e-mail before you send it next time. That and the shopping bag."

"Whoops." Coulson didn't look up from the computer he was staring at. "Sent you the wrong one, obviously. And it means no suit, you get the tux."

"Bastard." Clint said, with no real heat in his voice. Natasha thought he sounded amused, and wondered if he only acted upset to annoy Coulson. "Natasha, we can just stay on land Friday, sleep at the Manhattan base. Scare some tourists Saturday morning, then go play fancy folks that night."

* * *

"You know, Natasha, you're very resistant. Can't you at least try to relax?" Doctor Beeks sat back, a faint frown of annoyance on his face.

"I _am_ trying." Natasha fought back her own annoyance. They'd been at this for nearly an hour, and the only results were that they were both frustrated.

"Hey, have an idea." Clint had moved over to where they were sitting, book in hand. "Stand up." He watched as Natasha obeyed, then sat down in her chair, grabbing her wrist. "Sit." She sat. Wrapping his arms around her waist and giving her a small squeeze, he rested his chin on her shoulder. "Doc, try again," he ordered as he leaned back, pulling Natasha with him. She found it oddly comfortable and relaxed into his touch, especially when he freed one hand and started rubbing the back of her neck.

When Natasha woke up again, Clint was reading his book, back in his own chair, and Doctor Beeks was looking satisfied. "Well, good news and bad news. Which would you like first?"

"The bad, please?" Natasha felt relaxed, but made herself sit up as straight as she could.

"The bad, which actually isn't all that bad. Well, it looks like the Red Room wants their folks to gather any information that they possibly can. You also had a target list in there, so you won't be meeting the President anytime soon." They both ignored Clint's soft snort.

"The good, however, is very good. I can conclusively say that you are not a danger to SHIELD and if you were going to actively try to take any SHIELD targets out, you would have already tried. You've been following Clint around for how long now? Hawkeye was number three on the list. Whatever happened before you got here helped to break that conditioning more than I expected."

"What does that mean, doc?" Clint had obviously been paying attention. "Tried to keep track of what you were doing, but got kinda lost, you were talking pretty quietly. Didn't know you knew Russian. Did you fix anything, or will this need to be done some more? How about that digging for information thing? Sorry, Tasha, but you do need to understand, SHIELD or you, SHIELD wins."

"I tried to fix what I could, yes, and gave her a bit of a post-hypnotic suggestion to make future sessions easier. I'm sorry for not getting permission beforehand, but it's to make things easier in the long run, and I'll remove it later. The target list has been removed, or changed to a list of names that are SHIELD enemies, not hard. When it comes to hypnosis, and post-hypnotic suggestions, and any subconscious programming, actually, it doesn't work if the subject isn't already feeling support for that...whatever. So since you don't have any loyalty to your former employers, you really don't feel much like doing stuff for them. The information thing was a bit more stuck, probably because you still feel a desire to learn about SHIELD and things that you don't know, so that will take more work, but since she showed yesterday that she does have a measure of control over it, and she will be learning a good chunk of that stuff eventually, I'm not calling it a problem. And I've been studying Russian, along with other languages, in my rather copious amounts of spare time since well before I first heard that Natasha was on board; I do work with other departments at times. Besides, just because she's been so willing to speak English doesn't mean that we can't speak her native tongue every once in a while."

"So the only things that you put into my mind were to make this easier in the future, and changing a list of names?" Natasha found that she couldn't care about Clint's nickname for her, she was still feeling relaxed.

"Bingo." The doctor pointed at her. "Give the lady a prize. And, actually, most of those names are dead now. Now, do you have anything else that I can help you with today?"

Natasha slumped back in her chair, giving up the fight to try and stay upright just yet. "What is love, Doctor Beeks? Agent Coulson told me to look it up, but I haven't." She felt, more than saw, Clint moving closer.

"What type of love are you asking about? There are several. Most people think of love as being a romantic emotional connection. There is the love of a child for their parent, or a parent for their child. Love for a thing. I can say that I love my job, even if _some_ of the people I work with," he paused, glancing over at Clint, "need bribes and threats to actually let me do it. Love for one's country...the list can go on. If you want to go historical, Greeks had it split into three when it came to people. Love for the body, love for the mind, love for the soul. Then there's the purely physical. Sex. English word for love can mean that, too."

"Mmmm." Natasha hummed, starting to feel a bit more awake. "I will have to think on that, then. Thank you." She stood up and stretched. "Clint, I want to ask Doctor Beeks one more thing, but it's minor. Then I would like to go to the range. You?"

"Let me go yell at a few medical staff for a minute, and maybe gym, too? Then I've got school stuff to finish up tonight, and I want to actually get some sleep." Clint was already heading for the door. "Thanks, doc."

As the door shut, Doctor Beeks stared at Natasha. "What was that last bit about? And how much of a delay do you want?"

Natasha nodded her thanks while sitting back down. "Most of what I did was done in the name of love that I don't understand anymore. It disturbs me. No, it scares me. As for delay, I don't know."

"That's something that we can work on, but I've a feeling that you'll figure a chunk of it out on your own, once you get a bit of a push." The psychiatrist pulled out his cell phone, quickly sending a text. "So, since we've got a few minutes now that I've asked them to delay Clint, let me start to give you that push. Tell me, do you think you love Clint?"

"No." Natasha firmly shook her head. "I respect him. I am his friend, he is mine. I trust him, he trusts me. I admire him, and I owe him a very large debt, one that will keep growing because he has offered to help me pay for my sins of the past, and for the fact that he broke his programming and orders and brought me here. I owe him my life. At the same time, I fear him, because he is better than me in some things, and I suspect that he fears me, because I am better than he in some things. We both have the ability to hurt each other, badly, not just physically, but emotionally."

"See, Natasha, you can keep on telling yourself that, but I think that deep down, you do realize that those feelings can be summed up into love for him as a person, as a friend, or something that will develop into love. It just doesn't have to be in the classically romantic sense." He hummed. "Well, maybe not the feelings of debt, but I think that you'll very quickly find out that those feelings will go away, because you'll both end up in situations where you'll need to help the other, and keeping track of who owes whom what will only lead to resentment, anger, and unacceptable risk-taking. Tell me, you're going to school with him on a pretty regular basis?"

"Yes. I didn't go today, because of what happened yesterday, but I do like visiting his school and sitting in on his classes. It's different, and fun. It also helps me integrate into American culture, at least that one aspect of it."

"So, I've an assignment for you. I want you to watch as much junky television as you possibly can, and spend time just sitting around in Clint's school cafeteria or wherever students gather, listening to conversations. They'll throw around the word 'love' a lot, and it won't be in the way that you're fearing, because I think that you're not scared of love, that you don't hate love, or that you're scared of loving or of being loved, but that you're scared of losing yourself. So do that for a few days, write down some observations and thoughts, and come back and talk to me about it next week. I'll write you in for a second hypnosis session next Monday, to see if anything has come back or changed, then we'll kick Clint out and just chat. Cool?"

"Yes." Natasha stood up. "I will consider it, and do as you've asked. Thank you."

When she left the room, she didn't see Clint, but she heard yelling, so sat down in a chair to wait. When Clint came stalking out of an exam room, she simply followed him. "Clint?"

"_What_?" He snapped. "Oh, sorry Tasha. Just had to deal with idiots and just why they were making such a big fuss over a sprained ankle and not fully clearing me for so long. Stupid shit." He sighed. "Range, you said?"

"Gym first. Then range, when we're both nice and tired and sweaty. Then dinner, and you can finally get a chance to study, while I watch some television and think about how to get you to stop calling me Tasha and Nat."

Clint grinned. "Good deal."


	9. Chapter 9

Physical workouts are good for many things. Natasha continues to battle the idea of having nicknames.

* * *

The gym wasn't too full to feel crowded, but Natasha could feel eyes carefully glancing towards the door as she and Clint entered. Clint, for his part, scanned the room, before heading over towards a group in a corner. "Radar! Didn't know you were here with your crazy bunch." When he got closer, he jerked his head towards Natasha. "Natasha Romanoff. Thinking that you can probably help us out a bit, especially since you tend to stick to the Americas." He turned to Natasha. "This is Radar. Worked with his teams a bit in the past."

"Romanoff..." the man, Radar, stared at Natasha thoughtfully. "Clint, you _were_ a bad, bad boy, weren't you." He sighed, shaking his head. "What would the others have thought?"

"That I was damned lucky to have caught a hot Russian redhead?" Clint shrugged. "But yeah, see the problem?"

"Yeah. Thinking that the European folks aren't too happy, right? What about the suits?"

"Suits are dealing and will continue to deal, and suits have become a bit more happy now that she's been cleared by all the right people as being mostly safe, and wasn't that a chore and a half. Suits'll probably be a lot happier in the future, as well, once she does more than sit around and answer their stupid-ass questions. European folks and the Asian crews are the ones that really are pissed off, with a bit from the Americas. But since I thought that you hadn't crossed paths with the Black Widow before, was hoping that you've got a bit less mad towards her."

Radar nodded, glancing around. "Hell, you were just doing what you were told to, right?" At Natasha's nod, he continued. "Why should we be upset? Sure, might not want to go out for a drink with you, but I've no real desire to get Clint to go out, and it's been six years since I first met our circus freak. Trust him to have my back in the field, but that's about it. Hell, as long as you don't try to kill any of us, why would we have a problem?" His look was both a warning and a confirmation.

Clint turned, heading to the mats. "Let's not spend so much time talking. Tasha and I have been kinda lazy recently, and have something Saturday. My luck, there'll be issues."

"Sweet," Radar followed. "Maybe for once I can get you down. We're heading in for Saturday, too."

"You and what army?" Clint taunted. "Getting _old_, Radar. Why they made you lead, remember?"

"I _gots_ me an army. What do you have, archer boy?"

"Deadliest woman in the world?"

"Not for long," Natasha finally spoke up. "Especially if he keeps on using nicknames." She frowned at Clint. "What exactly is going on?"

Radar spoke up. "Total drag-out fight, borderline mass brawl, usually anybody who wants in can have in. Last man standing sort of thing, unless the suits get pissed off at us and send in security to break it up." He slipped off his shoes. "Rules are simple. No killing, no sending people to Medical for _anything_. Be honest, if you think that you've gotten killed or have had enough, leave the mat. Since Clint is feeling a bit of a pansy today, just going to start out small, you and him against me and my team."

"Here." Clint held out a handful of practice knives as Natasha eyed the rest of the group. "Let's do this."

Natasha felt she had fought well, even if she didn't win. Breathing heavily, she sat on the side of the mat and started stretching, watching Clint fight Radar. She looked up as the woman from Radar's team sat down next to her.

"Hey. That was fun. I'm Patty. So you're the Black Widow?"

"Natasha, please. And yes, that was enjoyable. I've never done anything like this before, so it was a nice experience." Natasha nodded, watching as Clint did some move that she'd never seen before, pinning Radar down. "And that's my cue." She stood up, moving back onto the mat. "So, Clint," she prowled around him in a circle. "I have asked you, nicely, to not use those little nicknames. So now I get to ask you not-so-nicely."

"Never said please," Clint retorted, turning to keep Natasha in sight.

"Would it have worked?"

"Nah." Was the only thing that Clint had a chance to say before Natasha moved to attack. She was aware of a growing crowd as the two fought, but ignored them in favor of finally releasing all the frustrations she'd been feeling. She ended up kneeling on Clint's chest, knife to his throat, when he made a wrong move, one that she'd halfway been expecting.

"Yield?" Natasha asked mildly, before feeling the prick of a knife in her side, slumping back slightly. "Damn."

"Draw?" Clint stared up at her, dark glint in his eyes. "Aight, woman, off."

She moved off him, digging one knee into his stomach in a mild rebuke. "Feeling better? I know I am."

"Yep." Clint stood up, moving towards Radar. "Thanks, Radar. You guys around here long?"

"Yeah, we're getting a bit of a break. That gig Saturday, then we've got a couple weeks downtime. Can I borrow Natasha for a bit? Think she could teach us some stuff."

"That's up to Natasha." Clint shrugged. "Nat?"

"Sure." Natasha nodded, thinking it might just be best to give up on the nickname fight. It wasn't that she was annoyed by it, much, but she found it more than a little odd, and really didn't know just what to think. "I have plenty of time, and you could probably teach me quite a bit, as well." An idea hit, and she glanced slyly at Clint. "As well as telling me all sorts of stories, especially since you've worked with him. So, Clint, range?" She finished tying her shoes, and turned to leave the gym. "I'm going to shower after that, then dinner?"

"Sure," Clint nodded. "See ya later, folks."

"What was that about?" Natasha glanced over at Clint as they walked through the halls. "Not that I didn't enjoy it."

"Best way to make sure that everybody knows something around here is to not shout it out, or send out e-mails or whatever. Rumors travel a lot faster. Radar...he was on a team that I worked with a fair amount when I first started, it was thanks to him and the other men in his team that I had fewer problems with people once I finished my probationary period. He's respected around here, been here a while, and people listen to him. So, once word gets around about what we just did, and that he asked for your help, some of the grumbling will die off, and you won't have to worry as much about shit happening like last weekend."

"I see." Natasha thought for a moment. "And if they hadn't been there? Also, do you have a notebook I can use?"

"Eh, would've taken a bit longer. And we can swing by stores, get you what you need."

* * *

Friday, Natasha was relaxing in the student commons, observing the students while pretending to watch TV, when she felt somebody sit down on the couch next to her. "Hey!" a vaguely familiar voice said.

"Hello," Natasha looked over. "Wendy, yes?"

"Yep!" Wendy nodded. "Been seeing you around a lot recently, just didn't get a chance to say hello. Having fun?"

"It has been educational, I will admit." Natasha shrugged. "I'm actually thinking about moving to the area, to be closer to Clint and his family. It's nice, being able to visit his parents more than once or twice a year."

"Where's your family?" Wendy turned on the couch to look straight at Natasha. "Wouldn't they have a problem with that?"

"No." Natasha shook her head, also turning and leaning back against the armrest of the couch. "My family decided that they didn't like living in the United States, so they left, to return home. I haven't seen them in a long time."

"Where's home?" Wendy looked curious. "I've noticed that you've got an accent sometimes...Eastern Europe, yeah?"

"Poland, yes. They live in Lodz, although I am originally from a small farm in the east." Natasha was thinking furiously, trying to remember everything about Poland, and how to best make her story believable without having to be too specific. "And what about you?"

"Oh, I'm from here. Well, not _here_ here, but you know. I'm actually from a couple hours away. Hey, wanna go get a drink or something?"

"I'm actually supposed to meet Clint right about now..." Natasha trailed off, seeing him walking in, looking around. She stood up, waving. "There he is. Can he come?"

"Sure!" Wendy nodded. "More the merrier! Hey, Clint. Wanna go grab a drink?"

Clint shook his head, leaning in to give Natasha a kiss. "Actually, we need to get going. Raincheck, maybe? Mom's doing really good, so I'm taking Tasha to New York for the weekend. Or she's taking me, since she's the one with a paycheck? Whatever. But we've got a bit of a drive, and I don't want to hit too much rush hour traffic."

"Bummer," Wendy pouted. "I'll hold you to that, then. You guys can come out to the bar with me and my girlfriend, maybe next weekend?"

"Wendy!" Clint sounded shocked. "You never said that you had a girlfriend!"

"Yep." Wendy nodded. "So, next Friday? Dinner, bar, dancing. Double date?"

"We'll see," Natasha said, leaning forward to give the other woman a hug. "It was nice seeing you again, Wendy."

* * *

That night, Natasha was curled in bed, reading a book she had borrowed from Clint when she heard a light tapping on her door. Curious, she closed the book and went to see who it was. Clint, looking pale, was standing there, a blank look on his face. "Clint?"

His only response was a slight shudder, before he wrapped her in a tight hug, head dropping to rest on her shoulder. "Sorry," he mumbled, before letting go and turning to leave.

Natasha reached out and grabbed his hand. "Stay," she told him, "and tell me what is wrong?" Closing the door, she led Clint to the bed, pushing him to sit down, before sitting next to him and loosely wrapping her arms around him. Clint responded by shifting, hiding his face in her shoulder.

"Nightmare," he muttered. Natasha had to strain her ears to hear him.

"Bad, then," Natasha said, "if you are looking like this?"

"Was one that I haven't had in a while. Not ready for it."

"Lay down, then, and tell me. No, on your front." Natasha sat next to Clint, slowly rubbing his back. "So, bad dream?"

"Yeah," was the muttered response, "Shitty."

"Mmmm," Natasha hummed. "I'm sorry."

"S'kay." Clint rolled over, grabbing Natasha's waist in a hug. "don't like them. Why I don't talk. Trust?"

Natasha shifted down and cuddled up against him with a small kiss. "Yes. And tomorrow I'll share one of mine. Now sleep." She followed her own advice by turning out the light and closing her eyes.

She was woken up by kisses on her neck and jaw. They tickled, and she couldn't hold back a laugh. Opening her eyes, she saw Clint looking down at her, a smile on his face but a reserved look in his eyes. "Hey," he said softly.

"Hey. Sleep better?" Natasha stretched her arms over her head.

"Yeah, surprisingly. Normally I can't sleep after one." Clint sat up and leaned against the wall. "Sorry that I bugged you last night, though."

Natasha reached out and grabbed his arm. "It was not a bother. Now, we've two options. One, breakfast. Two, I tell you about my worst nightmare." she let her voice trail off, staring at Clint questioningly.

"Hmmm." Clint gave her a look. "Think there might be a third option? Even with morning breath?"

"As I've heard on TV, screw that."

"Don't think that's a good thing to screw." Clint leaned over, putting his hands on either side of Natasha's head. "Now, a certain Russian..."

"All talk." Natasha smirked up at him. "No action." She was about to say more, when Clint dropped his head down, kissing her. As he pulled back, she gave him a coy look. "That all you got?"

Clint grinned, shifting to one hand and running his other down to toy with Natasha's top. "Definitely not."

* * *

As the two entered the mess hall, Clint glanced over at Natasha. "Only eat pre-packaged foods here." He thought for a second, then grabbed her elbow and turned around. "On second thought, only eat here in case of emergency. There's a halfway decent diner around the corner. Can't wait until this place gets renovated."

"Oh?" Natasha was feeling confused. The food on the Helicarrier was actually quite nice, and she was expecting that the pattern would be repeated here.

"Yeah. This is an older base, used mostly for recruits and folks who are on their way out. The recruits don't know better, and everybody else knows what to eat or just goes out. Don't know why this is the worst place for food, never have tried to figure it out, but it's been this way for longer than I've been around." Clint ushered Natasha out of the building.

Looking around the diner, Natasha was happy to see that it was mostly empty, and headed straight for the most private booth that she could see. She waited until the waitress had taken their orders and brought them both coffee, before starting to talk. "It once took me a year to integrate into a household, then fifteen minutes to destroy it." She took a chance, and spoke in Russian.

"Oh?" Clint replied in the same language, tasting his coffee. He looked into his cup suspiciously, then started adding sugar.

"I still remember it, probably a little too well, and please don't ask just why I remember this one so well, and not others, because I don't know." She shook her head. "It was not easy, for all that the family was a traitor to everything I loved; I had grown to care for them. It would have been impossible not to and still been able to keep my cover."

"Nat," Clint broke in. "You don't have to talk about this if you don't want to."

"No." Natasha tried her coffee, making a face at the burnt taste. "I want to."

Clint reached out and poured sugar and cream into her mug as the waitress returned with their plates. "Thanks," he said in English, before switching back to Russian. "Why?"

"I said I would. And it can only help, no?" She started eating. "I was nice to his wife; I gave her poison. I liked her, because she gave me treats. Then I sealed the windows and doors, and watched as the place burned to the ground." No longer hungry, Natasha pushed her plate away. "I don't know if talking about nightmares helps, but it certainly cannot hurt." She tried the coffee again. It was still disgusting, but gave her something to focus on.

"True." Clint acknowledged. "Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn't. Finished?" He pulled out his wallet, waving at the waitress.

"Yes. So, where were we going?" Natasha switched back to speaking English. At the waitress' look, she smiled up at the woman. "I wasn't as hungry as I thought I was."

"Hrmph," the woman snorted as she handed Clint the bill, before wandering off.

Clint just glanced at it, before tossing some money on the table and standing up. "Let's go scare some tourists."

Clint's idea of "scaring tourists" was to first drag Natasha through a wig shop, then through most of Manhattan for the day, looking at buildings and eating lunch in Central Park. As they were returning to the SHIELD base to prepare for the evening, she glanced over at him. "Why do you not attend one of the colleges here in Manhattan? It would be easier for you, yes?"

Clint nodded. "Yeah, it would've been, since I could've just moved back into the base here. But there's a certain level of anonymity that going to a small, mostly unknown school in the middle of practically nowhere provides, and as soon as I'm done, I can vanish pretty easily. It helps that most of my classmates keep their distance, too." As they entered the elevator, he glanced at her, reaching out to touch the wig. "This...is not a good look for you."

Natasha shrugged. "It's just a wig, and yes, I agree." She gave him a quick smile. "You can always wear it." She laughed at the look he gave her. "At least it cuts down on the amount of time I require to get ready. You are lucky."

"Lucky, right." Clint drawled, as the elevator doors opened on Natasha's floor. "Have some other stuff for you that you might want, come on up when you're done getting ready."


	10. Chapter 10

Present. More Natasha whump, plus comic-verse stuff shows up.

* * *

Natasha knocked on Clint's door, and enjoyed the way that his eyes widened slightly when he saw her. "Nice," was all that he said. "Missing some stuff, though."

"You clean up well, yourself," she replied. "And I made do."

Clint nodded, opening up a case on the desk. "Here," he said. "Take your pick." It was a collection of knives, and Natasha ran her fingers over some, before choosing two. She saw sheaths and straps, and made quick work of strapping them where they were accessible but not easily seen.

"Good?"

"As long as you don't kill any SHIELD folks, just about. Also." Clint held out a small communicator. "In ear, right now it's set up as needing to press this button to talk, or else we'd all go nuts. Frequency is set." He pointed out the button, and helped Natasha slide it into her ear. Taking a careful look, he frowned slightly. "Bit large for you, but looks close enough to a hearing aid, so no worries. _Now_ you're good." He picked his jacket up off the bed, sliding it on. "Coulson'll meet us downstairs, he's got everything else. Taxi should be waiting, too."

Coulson was standing by the security desk, and held out a small purse to Natasha. "Natasha Roman and you're keeping your name, Clint. Have fun, don't kill anybody." Seeing Clint roll his eyes, Coulson just shook his head. "Be glad I'm not making you go by Francis, Barton, because I thought about it. Natasha, please try to sound American. You've the ability to talk on the radio, but only in extreme situations. Have fun, your carriage turns back into a pumpkin at three AM."

"Francis?" Natasha asked as they left the building. She looked inside the purse that she'd been handed, finding two tickets and a picture ID.

"Later," Clint muttered, helping her into the taxi. Leaning forward, he told the driver where they were going. Sitting back, he looked over at her. "Don't jump." He reached up, casually rubbing at his neck. "Check."

"About damn time, Hawkeye." An unknown voice came over the radio in Natasha's ear. "Positions are set, we're all just waiting on the party to start. Have a lady friend tonight, I heard?"

"Can the chatter," Natasha recognized Radar's voice. "Barton, you're good. Romanoff, test yours."

Natasha pretended to play with her hair as she pressed the button. "Clint, you clean up nice." She tried to sound like any one of a number of TV characters that she'd seen since arriving.

Clint shook his head, smiling. "So do you, Nat."

"Sounds good, Romanoff. See you when you I see you." It was interesting, Natasha thought, to be in a situation such as this one.

The taxi pulled up in front of the museum, and Natasha took Clint's arm as they joined the other guests entering the building. She thought that she had seen the person who checked their tickets in the mess hall a few times; she did recognize Patty from Radar's team walking around with a tray of drinks. Clint was right – Patty didn't blend in as well as she could have, and looked slightly uncomfortable. A glance at the servers suggested to Natasha that they were a combination of SHIELD employees and professional servers; to her eyes, the difference between the two groups was remarkable.

She and Clint wandered around, looking at the artwork. It wasn't to Natasha's tastes, but feigning interest wasn't hard. As the artist stood up and started talking, Natasha glanced around, and felt a chill. "Dear, isn't that Ivan?" She nodded at a man she recognized.

"I do believe it is." Clint nodded, tightening his grip on her arm slightly. "Do you want to go say hi?"

"No," Natasha shook her head, watching as the artist finished talking and the music started up again. "No need."

"Target spotted," the voice came over the radio. "By the big yellow thing."

Clint steered Natasha to a quiet corner. "Possible secondary target, Red Room or allied. Talking to artist. And confirm the yellow. What else is there?"

"Ten feet tall, looks like somebody took a metal foot and bent it in half."

"Copy. Ugly-ass thing in the corner. New target?"

"Take him," Coulson's voice came over the radio. "Alive."

"Barton, primary or secondary first." Natasha thought she saw Radar standing in a corner.

"Secondary," Clint said, with a glance at Natasha. "Nat, think he'd have friends?"

"Possibly." Natasha nodded, "but if so, they'd be close, and I don't see anybody else that I recognize."

"Would he recognize you?" Clint was outwardly calm, scanning the room casually.

"I'm surprised that he hasn't, actually." Natasha admitted. "I'll tell you why later."

"Radar, start working on the distraction." Clint scanned the room. "Nat, can you see if I was bit by a bug or something? I've got the worst itch."

"Roger that. Patty, go offer Stark the booze."

As Clint leaned down and Natasha pretended to look at the side of his neck, lightly running her fingers through his hair, Clint started talking. "Bathroom, ditch the wig. Let him see you, go to the hall where the caterers are at. Remember, you run, we'll find you. Understand?"

Natasha just gave Clint a look. "Of course. I don't want to leave." Standing back, she continued, "I do see a bit of something there. Now, I need to go wash my hands." She slipped into the bathroom, and with a fast look around to make sure it was empty, pulled off the wig, then the wig cap. Shoving them both deep into the trash, she unpinned her hair, shaking it down, then running her fingers through it. Quickly twisting it up, she took a deep breath, very much not wanting to go back out there. Ivan wasn't a man that she wanted to face without a gun and at least three meters between the two of them; a sniper rifle and 50 meters would be ideal. A second deep breath, and Natasha went back out to the hall.

It wasn't hard to catch Ivan's eye; the man was one to chase the ladies. Natasha held her head up, and with barely a glance in his direction to make sure that he was following her, headed towards where Clint had told her to go. Ducking into the hall, she saw Clint standing in a doorway, and moved straight for him.

"Natasha." The voice was one that would always give Natasha a sick feeling, and she stopped. "We are very upset with you. I hope that you had a nice vacation, but it's time to come home now. Come willingly, and we might be less upset."

"I disagree," Natasha didn't turn around, but kept her gaze focused on Clint, speaking in Russian. "Although yes, I have had a very nice time. I have even made some friends."

"For shame." Natasha could hear Ivan moving closer. "What would Alexei say?"

Natasha felt like she'd been punched in the gut. "I don't know, Ivan. You killed him, remember?" She spun around, anticipating the blow, catching it on one arm. "He'd probably be upset." Feinting, she kicked Ivan in the knee and pulled out one of the knives Clint had given her. "Your own _brother_, Ivan. And you killed him." She swung at his face with the knife, only to have her wrist caught.

"Now, Natasha," Ivan had her wrapped up in a bearhug, his hands grasping her wrists, squeezing her tightly. "It was necessary. Stop right there," he said in English. Clint had been moving forward, but stopped at the command.

"Hey, man, I don't know what's going on here, but if a lady says no, a gentleman is supposed to respect her wishes." Clint drawled, spreading his hands wide. "So let the lady go, and hopefully she won't call the cops."

Ivan laughed. "You do not know what you're getting into." His grip tightened around Natasha, who was struggling to breath, now.

Natasha stopped fighting, and went limp. Feeling the hold on her shift, she exploded into action, biting, scratching, kicking, and hitting whatever part of Ivan she could. She saw Clint, out of the corner of her eye, moving closer, and attempted to turn the fight such that she wasn't between the two men, but the hallway was just too narrow.

"Romanoff, hit the deck." The order came over her half-forgotten radio, and Natasha dropped to the floor. She heard a grunt, then Ivan was also falling, and a group of people were moving in. A hand was held in front of her face.

"C'mon." Clint helped Natasha up. "This party's a little dull, don't you think?" He watched as the unconscious man was hauled down the hall by a group of armed SHIELD men. "You okay?"

"No." Natasha spat, wanting to go after Ivan and finish what she had started. "I want to _kill_ him."

Clint blocked her attempts to follow. "Stop that." She tried to punch him, only to have Clint grab her wrist and spin her around, roughly pinning her to the wall, ignoring her cursing and attempts to kick him. "Report on primary."

"Still there. Status?" Radar queried.

"Need five, then we're back in action." Clint leaned forward. "Natasha, _calm down_. You're breaking your cover, and mine, and a lot of others'. You want out in the future, you have to be good tonight. Being good doesn't include me drugging you and having them throw you into a detention cell, understand?" He shifted, using his body to hold Natasha to the wall, reaching into a pocket.

"I will kill him." Natasha repeated. "Slowly, and painfully."

"And _not now_." Clint interrupted. "Now, do I have to use this, or are you going to act like the professional you are?" He held a syringe up in front of her face.

"I'll be good." Natasha snapped. "As long as I'm allowed to kill him later."

"We'll see," was all that Clint said as he released her arm. "Let's take a look at you." He smiled softly. "You look like you've been in a fight, Tasha."

Natasha just glared at him, redoing her hair. "Better?"

"Not really." Clint looked around, then led Natasha into where the caterers were set up. There was a mirror by the door. "Take a look."

"Ah," Natasha nodded, seeing the blood coming from her mouth and the smeared makeup. "Well? Do you have something that I can clean this up with?" She accepted the damp towel, and wiped her face. She poked at the cut on the inside of her lip with her tongue, and took a second look at herself. Another wipe with the towel, and she looked at Clint in the mirror. "Good?"

"Yeah." Clint rubbed the back of Natasha's neck. "Are you calmer now?"

"No." Natasha shook her head. "But I'm good to keep on going."

The rest of the time at the gala and the capture of their target was almost anticlimatic. Tony Stark had been kept plied with alcohol, and, as anticipated, quickly become the center of attention. Natasha noticed a red-headed woman looking upset, following him around, and spared a small corner of her mind towards feeling sorry for her. Clint had smoothly snuck up behind the target, and Natasha almost missed the slight movement of his hand before two SHIELD agents were quietly assisting the drugged man from the room.

"We're clear. Finish up, then return to base." Coulson's voice was calm over the radio.

Clint grabbed Natasha's arm and slowly started heading for the door. Mentally, she winced, suspecting that he was angry with her, just based on how tightly he was holding. In the taxi, he finally let go, looking at her. "Just what the _fuck_ was all that?" He was glaring, and Natasha just glared back.

"Not here." she hissed. "But you now have a man who is very valuable to the Red Room under your control. And I _will_ be the one to put the bullet in his brain, understand?" She turned away from Clint then, crossing her arms and staring out the window.

At the SHIELD base, Clint followed Natasha to her room. "Get changed, then meet me in the gym. We can talk there." He vanished.

Natasha beat Clint to the gym, but when she saw him walking in with Coulson, she wasn't surprised. "So." Was all she said, staring at the two men.

Clint didn't say anything, just grabbed her arm and dragged her to the practice mats, Coulson following. "Now," he said, circling Natasha. "Who is that man that we brought in."

"Ivan Shostakov, Red Room trainer and one of the men in charge of selecting, bringing in, and controlling the women. He's one of the highest in that particular group, and rumors have him placed even higher." Natasha turned, keeping Clint in her sight.

"So if he's so important, why would he be here?" Clint moved in, attacking.

"I had filed a report that I met an English speaker and was being followed, the day before we...met. They probably figured out that it was SHIELD, then I vanished without leaving a body behind. And he'd recognize me the best. The rest, you'd have to ask him." Natasha spat, defending herself.

"Why. And who was Alexei, and why would he be disappointed in you."

The questions were too much, and Natasha quickly turned the tables on Clint, taking him down. Pinning him to the mats, she was ashamed to feel the prickling of tears in the back of her eyes. "Alexei, until they killed him, was my _husband_," she hissed in his ear, before jumping up and moving for the door, savagely swiping at her eyes with the back of one hand.

"_Coulson_," she heard Clint snap, and then Coulson was in her way, grabbing her in a hold that she'd never experienced before, and one that she couldn't break, no matter how much she tried. He dragged her back to the mat where Clint was standing, and forced her down to the ground.

"Natasha, stay." Natasha wondered if Coulson was able to sound anything other than calm and in control in potential crisis situations. "Clint."

Clint hugged Natasha from behind, wrapping his arms and one leg around her so that she couldn't do anything but submit. She felt Coulson let go, and move away. Faintly, she heard a click. "Door's locked, Natasha, you're stuck here with us." Clint murmured into her hair. "Ivan's Alexei's brother?" She nodded. "Let it out, Tasha. Just let it out. Don't blame you for wanting to kill him. How long?"

"How long what?" Natasha tried to turn slightly, to better lean against Clint. He let her, but didn't loosen his grip enough to let her go.

"I'd love to know how long my partner was married, did she have any kids that Uncle Clint's going to have to track down and spoil rotten, and how long she's been carrying this bunch of hate." Clint's voice had a mixture of nonchalance and concern, which almost pushed Natasha over the edge. She did feel tears start to trickle down her cheeks.

"One year, I can't have children, and three years."

"How'd you two meet?"

Natasha laughed bitterly. "I was told to report to an office not long after I turned eighteen. I walk in, and he's standing there. We walk out married. I almost killed him, myself, but...it became routine, and then nice. We weren't friends, really, but one doesn't have to be friends to be lovers, or to love."

"And then?" Clint was starting to rock her slightly.

"I returned from a mission early. I walk into our apartment, only to see Ivan shoot Alexei in the chest." Natasha focused on the feel of Clint's shirt against her cheek. "He told me that it was punishment. For which one of us, I don't know, but Ivan is fond of calling everything punishment. He'd bring a gift, call it punishment; it was practically a joke with him. Alexei was a test pilot, for a program that I didn't know anything about. He knew I was a spy, but not just what I did. It worked." She shrugged slightly.

"And about three years ago is when the Black Widow first really came to our attention." Coulson sounded closer than Natasha thought he'd been, and she just closed her eyes, breathing in Clint's scent. "Up until then, Red Room seemed to only run men."

"Bossman, are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Clint's voice was calm, and the vibrations echoed through his chest. "Our girl here has been wanting out for a hell of a lot longer than we, or she, thought. She just didn't know what to do or where to go. The kids were most likely the final straw." He glanced down slightly. "Well, there go my plans to take her out to a bar tonight."

"She's Russian, Clint, she'd probably drink you under the table. You're practically still the same damn lightweight that you were at twenty-one." Coulson's response made Natasha giggle. "Something funny, Romanoff?"

"Not all Russians can hold their alcohol, although it's a fun stereotype to encourage." Natasha didn't open her eyes. "Although I am partial to a shot of vodka every now and then, I don't make it a habit." She yawned. "Actually, I've had a few good whiskeys, as well."

"I'm sure," Clint sounded amused. "Any other big news that you've got for us, Natasha? Because if there is, I want an Earth-shattering kaboom. I miss my Earth-shattering kabooms."

"Looney Tunes. They're fun." Natasha was fast falling asleep, lulled by the sound of Clint's voice, the hug, and the steady rocking. "I'll bring the explosives, if you can catch the damned rabbit," she mumbled.

"And she's down for the count, Coulson. Can we wait until later to fully debrief? I've already given you most of mine, and I'm sure that her's'll match pretty closely." Clint glanced between the sleeping woman and his handler. "Well, with the exception of what we just found out." He shifted, picking Natasha up. She just snuggled closer, which made both Clint and Coulson look at each other. "Huh. Now that's trust."

"Or just mental and emotional exhaustion. But don't sweat the debrief. I'll make sure the right people know our other guest's status and Natasha's request. Doubt that she'll get it, but it'll probably make her feel better to know that it was at least passed along." Coulson was staring into the distance, deep in thought. "Going to get Shostakov moved to the Helicarrier tonight."

"Yeah. Thanks." Clint was standing at the door. "Door, please? And I'll need some help getting her door open, as well. Gonna need you to take a couple knives and her communicator, too. She'll need a smaller one for next time, this one was a bit too obvious."

"You can't do that?" Coulson's voice was dry, as if he already knew the answer.

"Gonna stay with her tonight. Could use a rather large thermos of coffee, if you're willing. Skip the diner around the corner, they've started to leave it out too long."

* * *

When Natasha woke up, she was lying on top of Clint, and she felt a low chuckle rumbling through his chest. She moved slightly, and his arm tightened around her back. "Morning," he said. Natasha just pretended to still be asleep. "Nope, know you're awake." Reluctantly, she opened her eyes and sat up, feeling slightly embarrassed about what had happened the previous night.

"Looney Tunes?" She asked, seeing what was on the TV.

"Needed to get my Earth-shattering kabooms someplace, and they won't let me use the exploding arrows anyplace but off the flight deck of the Helicarrier or on a mission." Clint took a close look at Natasha. "Feeling better?"

"I still want to shoot Ivan in the head, but yes." Natasha glanced at Clint, before lying back down and resting her head on his chest. "Did you sleep last night?"

"Nope. Lots and lots of coffee and television." Clint yawned. "Although I could use a nap, Coulson wants to see us in about an hour. Just enough time to grab some breakfast."

Natasha shook her head, grabbing for the blankets to pull them over her head. "Fuck breakfast. Not hungry."

Clint hummed, grabbing his cell phone. "Thirty minutes, then I'm kicking you out of bed." He programmed an alarm, then turned off the TV, shifting down and falling asleep himself.

* * *

"Unfortunately, Natasha, your request to shoot Shostakov was denied. He was sent to the Helicarrier last night, and the detention cells aren't in your list of green areas, so while I can get you in to watch the interrogations, you won't have any face-to-face meetings." Coulson was drinking straight from a thermos, ignoring the mug sitting next to the computer monitor.

"Tired, Coulson?" Clint hadn't even bothered to try and sit upright, slumping in his chair. "Because if you're doing that, then you must not have gotten any sleep for a couple days."

"Three." Coulson nodded. "And once we're done here, the fluffy pink bunny rabbits are telling me that if I don't get horizontal, they'll bring in their friends, the giant green rage monsters." He sorted through some papers on the desk. "So, Natasha, Shostakov. Red Room whatever. How did you know that you'd be able to drag him off?"

"He likes the women, and is always watching them." Natasha said. "Once he saw me without the wig, I knew he'd follow. I'm actually surprised he didn't recognize me before that. Clint told me to take him to the catering hallway. We fought, somebody took him down. Clint wouldn't let me go after Ivan and kill him."

"Okay. Debrief over." Coulson rubbed his eyes. "If needed, we'll talk more later, Natasha, but Clint's given me just about everything." He stood up. "Out."

In the hallway, Clint looked over at Natasha. "Hungry?" When she shook her head, he just nodded. "Okay. And I'm not surprised that he didn't recognize you, that wig was damned ugly." He led the way back to her room. "Can I come in?"

She nodded, opening the door and crawling back into her bed, turning on the TV and leaning against the headboard. "So?" She didn't look at Clint.

"So, not upset that you didn't tell me all that." Natasha wondered if Clint could ever _not_ flop into bed. "Don't blame you. Haven't told you everything, might one day. How're you doing?"

"Good." Natasha didn't take her gaze away from the TV. "I came to terms with everything a while ago. Ivan just brought it back." She shook her head. "I want to see the interrogations."

"Okay." Clint sounded half asleep.

"Sleep." Natasha ordered. "You didn't have to stay up all night, you know."

He shook his head, closing his eyes. "It sounded like you were starting to have a couple nightmares." He yawned. "Didn't want to experience a full one without being rested. You can be touchy enough on a good day, but after last night? Yeah."

"I am not touchy." Natasha firmly poked Clint in his chest with each word.

"Ow, woman! And who was telling me just the other day that if I didn't shut up about watching some chick flick that she'd do all sorts of unspeakable horrors to me? _After_ beating my ass down in the gym?" Clint swiped his hand in her general direction. "Really have to work on your threats, you know."

"My room, my TV, and you're so noisy with your complaints, I can't focus on what I'm watching. I don't complain about watching the things that you like when we're in your room, do I? And the day before, you beat me. Fair's fair." Natasha watched as Clint felt around next to him on the bed.

"You do this little sniff and get a look on your face. So yeah, you do complain." Clint's hand had finally made contact with Natasha's leg, and he moved it until it was resting on her thigh, giving her a light squeeze. "Women," he grumbled with no real anger, and Natasha felt his hand relax.

"Men." She shook her head and went back to watching TV. Starting to feel hungry, Natasha looked over at Clint. He was fast asleep, and so she just turned off the TV and climbed out of the bed. Digging in her backpack, she left him a note, and went to find the mess hall. Surely they couldn't ruin toast.


	11. Chapter 11

Baby scientists and pranks. Natasha shows off her interrogation skills.

* * *

"How can they ruin toast." Natasha didn't look away from her plate as Clint sat down next to her. "I don't understand, it's _toast_. You put the bread in a toaster, push the lever, and a few minutes later you have toast. Then you put whatever you want on it. But this isn't toast. It's some strange combination of I don't know what." She finally looked up, seeing Clint's amusement. "Don't get me started on the tea."

"How long have you been sitting here?" Clint asked, reaching out to touch her cheek. "Nice shiner, by the way. Hurt anywhere else?"

"No." Natasha pulled her head back slightly. It wasn't a deep bruise, but it was still tender. "How long was your nap? I did spend some time exploring, so I don't know how long I've been sitting here with this...affront to food. The range looks nice, but who teaches these people to shoot?"

"Scale of one to ten, one being having never handled a gun before, ten being, well, me, how good were they?" Clint sounded excited.

"Negative three." Natasha shook her head. "A couple of them looked like they were about to cry. One of them _was_ crying. I watched for probably ten, fifteen minutes, and most of them couldn't hit the targets, either, if they were even allowed to pick up a gun."

"Sweet." Clint nodded. "Baby scientists. Wanna help me?"

"Only if you promise to help them, and not scare them witless. This group is a bit more tender than some others." An older women slowly sat down. "Barton, how is my favorite punk doing?" She looked at Natasha in question.

"Agent Delores Smith, meet Natasha Romanoff, official title still to be determined. Late of the Red Room. She's just discovered the truth behind the mess hall here." Clint glanced between the two women. "Nat, this is Delores, training baby agents for longer than I've been here. Luckily for everybody, Coulson had the job of beating most of the stuff into my hard skull; Delores just was dragged along for the ride and some of the bookwork. We're actually heading back to the Helicarrier this afternoon, Delores, so if you'd like our help, it'll have to be soon. I was just going to lurk someplace up high and make comments as usual."

"Your help sounds lovely," Delores nodded. "If you can meet us on the range in, say, thirty minutes, I'll make sure to get all of them there. Can you go talk to the rangemaster? I'd like to talk a bit to Natasha, first. Don't worry, I'll make sure she's fed." She watched Clint dart out of the room, then turned back to Natasha. "So, Red Room? Let me just say, you hurt Clint, I'll hurt you."

Natasha nodded her understanding. "The only place that I intend on potentially hurting Clint is in the gym, and certainly his ego. He's good at fighting, but I'm better." She gave Delores a pleading look. "Food? I haven't had anything to really eat since lunchtime yesterday, and that was just a hot dog in Central Park. Canapes and wine at a gala aren't quite dinner, and I even missed out on most of that."

"Oh, you poor thing." Delores started digging through a bag. "I don't have much, but I always try to keep something on me. Now, how on Earth did you get that bruise?"

"I was in a fight last night." Natasha shrugged, "two, actually, and I don't remember who hit me. It might have been Clint, might have been a target."

"Clint?" Delores was looking at Natasha, holding out a couple granola bars. "Here, it's better than nothing, and the bottles of juice are always safe."

"We were sparring." Natasha kept her explanation simple. "It got a little wild."

"I'll bet, knowing him." Delores watched as Natasha bolted the food. "Now, lets go round us up some rookies, and we can even pull something on Clint."

Entering the range at the rear of the group, Natasha caught Delores's nod. "Clinton Francis Barton! Get your lazy ass down here!" She leaned against the doorframe, a smile on her face, as Clint dropped down from the ceiling with a disappointed huff. "Ladies and gentlemen, your trainer for this special session is Agent Barton. Agent Smith has asked him, and by extension me, to see if we are able to help you all learn to at least hit a stationary target."

"Ruin all my fun," Clint was shaking his head as Natasha pushed through the group to join him. "Aight, baby agents, you know the drill. Eyes and ears." He handed Natasha a set of earplugs and safety glasses. "Rule number one. Don't piss off the lady. I repeat, do _not_ piss off the lady, because that will annoy me. Rule number two. Don't piss me off, because that will annoy the lady. Rule number three. Crying is not an option. Tears did not get you a degree, tears were not what brought you to SHIELD's attention. I know you've been told this, but it bears repeating, Miss Romanoff and I are two of the people who are going to be doing the killing and yes, have killed. You geeks of SHIELD only learn how to shoot in cases of extreme emergency. Let's get started." He glanced over at Natasha with an apologetic smile. "Sorry in advance?" he whispered.

* * *

As soon as the door opened on the Quinjet, Natasha headed straight for the mess hall, Clint trailing behind. Sitting down with her tray, she started eating. "Finally," she sighed in relief.

"Shouldn't've left you alone with Delores." Clint was shaking his head. "So, yeah, full name. Don't laugh, please?"

"More likely to laugh at those scientists." Natasha smirked. "Clinton Francis."

Clint just shook his head. "I deserved that," he mumbled to himself. "I play with fire I'm gonna get burned, I can give it only if I can take it..."

Natasha ignored his mutters, until she felt a hand reach out and grab her chin, tilting her head so that her cheek was in the light and a finger rubbed lightly at the bruise there. "This thing looked brand new this morning, now it looks two days old." Clint sounded slightly suspicious.

"I heal fast." Natasha pulled her head away. "For as long as I can remember. Don't really get sick, either." She shrugged. "Problem?"

"Jealous, is all. I _always_ seem to get the flu." Clint shifted slightly, pulling out his cell phone. "Barton. Yeah. Okay. Yessir." He put his phone away, looking at Natasha. "We're needed in interrogation."

* * *

Natasha stood in front of the video screens, arms crossed and a small frown on her face. "You need me here for what?"

"He will only say that he needs to talk to you, Miss Romanoff." Fury was standing behind her. "We can work this two ways. One, we drug him. Two, you talk to him."

Natasha thought for a minute. "Drugs won't give you what you want. I won't kill him, but am I allowed to hurt him?"

"No bloodshed." Fury was staring at the back of her head. "We've got gas ready to go into that room, and there will be men with guns waiting outside if needed. Understand?"

"Perfectly." Natasha turned and walked over to Clint, grabbing the sandwich he was eating and the folding knife from his pocket, ignoring his startled "hey!" Putting the knife into her own pocket, she walked to the door. Taking a deep breath, she nodded at the men standing there. One of them opened the door, and she walked in.

"Hello again, Natasha." Ivan was handcuffed down to a chair, staring at her.

Natasha pretended to ignore him, leaning against the wall and taking a bite of the sandwich. Roast beef; not her first choice, but it could be worse. She wondered how Clint could eat so much horseradish, though. She saw Ivan starting to shift in his chair, and continued to ignore him. Finishing, she licked her fingers clean and finally looked at Ivan as she sat down. "Ivan." She spoke in English.

"Tell me this, Natasha." Ivan was staring at her. "Why?" His eyes narrowed at her shrug. "Very well then, you leave me no choice. Black Widow, you have brought shame to your name and that of your family." He spoke in Japanese, using an odd cadence that sounded vaguely familiar to Natasha. Her fingers twitched and she heard a small voice in the back of her head. She ignored it.

Natasha just shrugged again. "_You_ were the one to bring shame to it." She leaned forward at his startled look. "Trigger phrases, Ivan? If there is _one_ thing that I have learned in my time here, it is that any programming that is done must have subconscious support for it to work. You, Ivan, have been on my shit list for _years,_ Red Room for the past few months. SHIELD has given me a chance at life again, and maybe even a purpose. So why should I respond?" Leaning back in the chair and putting her feet on the table, she pulled out the knife and started to play with it. "So, you wanted to see me. You have seen me, and you have even talked to me. I am now the one in charge, understand? I have promised not to kill you – yet – but I didn't promise to leave you whole." A part of her rejoiced at the way he paled, and she gave him a cold smile.

Nobody in the other room could suppress winces as they watched Natasha interrogate Ivan. "She's very...clinical." Clint threw out at one point in time. "And creative." He watched as she pulled Ivan's head back, whispering in his ear, before banging on the door and leaving the room, knife in hand.

"She is." Fury nodded. "Son, hope you know what you're getting into with her." He patted Clint's shoulder and left the room as Clint just nodded.

Natasha tangled her fingers in Ivan's hair, savagely pulling his head back and whispering in his ear. "You want to know _why_? You'll just have to wonder, if you can't figure it out yourself. Let _that _be your 'punishment' from _me_, Ivan, and Alexei." Letting go, she wiped her hand on her jeans, walking to the door and giving it a firm knock. Ignoring the way that hands tightened on guns, she went back to the control room, slipping the knife back into Clint's pocket. "There. You've got some information, I'm feeling much better about a lot of stuff, and I need something to get all that horseradish taste out of my mouth. That much is _disgusting_."

Clint just stared at her. "You only touched him _once_, and that was after he started talking. You verbally _flayed_ him."

"He's a coward." Natasha let out a sigh of relief. "I'm just happy that the trigger phrase he tried didn't work."

"Ma'am?" One of the techs was holding out a handful of hard candy. "Better than nothing. Gotta say, haven't seen a technique like that before. Don't think he'll sleep for a _week_." She shook her head in admiration. "Can I watch if you do more?"

"It's not Miss Romanoff's place to be doing interrogations." Coulson's voice had Natasha looking over at the door. "I thought I had told you, both, that she was allowed to watch. I never said anything about participating, and if I remember correctly, there weren't to be any face-to-face meetings."

"Fury's orders," Clint said. "Shostakov would only talk to Tasha. Did you see any of it?"

"You really should, sir," the tech jumped in before Coulson could reply. "She's got a great way with words, seemed to know just what to say. One bit had him in tears, I'd love to know what it meant just so that I can use it on my ex."

"It loses all meaning in English, unfortunately." Natasha was enjoying the taste of the candy. "And it was so successful because I know a lot about him. Anybody else, it wouldn't have worked nearly as well." She unwrapped a second piece, tossing it into her mouth. "He enjoys feelings of power and control; having him tied up already had him off balance. How I acted helped even more." She looked at Coulson. "If he starts to give you trouble again, just tell him that Natasha knows about Kiev."

"Natasha knows about Kiev." Coulson nodded. "Got it. Care to tell me why that's so important?"

"Not particularly, since it doesn't have anything to do with SHIELD or the Red Room. It's much more personal for him."

"Hey, what was that phrase?" Clint had been wondering if there should be any concern. "And what would it have made you do?"

"He said 'Black Widow, you have shamed your name and that of your family.'" Natasha was careful how she spoke. "It was in Japanese, and I don't know what I would have done – probably tried to kill myself and take out as many of you as I could in the process."

"Yeah, that seems logical." Clint nodded. "Now, you owe me a new sandwich, Nat."

* * *

"So, before we get started, would you like me to leave the hypnosis trigger or take it off?" Doctor Beeks looked between Clint and Natasha.

"Leave it." "Take it off." They both spoke at once, then looked at each other and started a rapid-fire debate. "My brain, Barton, my decision." "Safety, Romanoff." "Screw you, _Clinton_." "Promises, promises, _Natasha_."

Beeks was having a hard time keeping his face still, watching the back and forth, so he did the only thing he could do, and laughed. Hard. "Are you two quite finished?"

"No," both Clint and Natasha snapped, staring at each other.

"Well then, I'm saying you're done for now. Natasha, eyes over here, please. Sorry, Clint, but Natasha wins this one. She's the patient, it's her decision." He ignored the face that Clint made. "And it's pretty obscure, if there's any reason to use this particular combination of words I've yet to hear it, not to mention it works best with my voice. So, Natasha. Zinc, phone, nighty night." He waited a moment as her face went blank, before moving the small crystal he'd been playing with to one hand and picking up his pen. Scribbling a note, Beeks held it out in Clint's direction. "You feel relaxed and calm." He let her sit there while he glanced at Clint with a raised eyebrow. At Clint's headshake, he turned back to Natasha, speaking in Russian. "Natasha, you're entering your safe house, and walking to your lockbox. You are opening it with the key that you find in your hand. Can you tell me what is inside the box?" A piece of paper was slid in front of him as Natasha started talking, and Beeks took a fast look, then frowned. This was going to be interesting. He waved at Clint to move further back; there were questions he needed to ask that were best kept private.

Watching Natasha slip out of his office, Beeks picked up his phone. "Phil? Jim. You owe me ten bucks and a beer. Natasha's cleared for whatever the hell you and Fury've got planned for her. Not totally SHIELD's, _yet_, but she's very firmly focused on Clint, at a level that I've only seen between Clint and, well, you, and all I can say is that payback'll be a bitch. And if they aren't sleeping together yet, I give it a month at the outside. Can't say how that might affect how they'll work together." He rubbed at his eyes, listening to Coulson's questions. "Look, Phil, she's 22, in some aspects still _very_ much a little girl, and really, this age range has traditionally been a flexible one. Sure, she acts much older than her age, but that happens quite a bit, and she's just falling back on old habits right now; biggest thing to remember is that she isn't Clint, so you'll probably have to figure out some new methods for working with her. My official recommendations, with the full backing of the rest of the psych department, are simple. Read her in to, say, level three, give her something moderately challenging to do that can use her skill sets and that can have Clint going in as well, and she'll be SHIELD's unless Red Room gets their hands on her and starts pulling some of their tricks; she's mentioned how they've got some reprogramming gig up their sleeve. But, because of that, I've left a couple knock-out triggers in her head; it's well within my authority to do so and not tell anybody but you, since you're written down as her handler. I just hope that they'll work if they're needed, and if a year goes by without issue, I'll pull 'em off. Good. Gotta run, I've a department meeting in ten minutes, and still need to finish up my notes." Hanging up, Beeks went back to his computer, shaking his head. "Should've gone into research like my aunt said. ouldn't be putting up with half as much as I do now."

* * *

Clint was waiting for Natasha when she left, which didn't surprise her. "Dinner? Range?" She asked, looking over at him, trying to process what the psychiatrist had said. "Gym?"

"Sure." Clint shrugged, before looking around, then pulling Natasha into an empty room. "In a bit." He moved a chair underneath a vent in the wall, pulling the cover off and sliding it into the ductwork. Moving the chair back to its original position, he jumped up and pulled himself into the hole. "Wanna help?"

"With what?" Natasha crossed her arms, staring up with a small frown on her face.

"I, you, owe Fury. Big time. Figure now is as good a time as any to rig something up; he's usually on the bridge until late on Mondays." Clint slid back a bit. "Now get _up_ here."

Natasha jumped up, grabbing at the hand Clint offered, and watched as he carefully fit the cover back. They didn't spend as long as Natasha expected in the air vents; Clint led her through to what appeared to be a maintenance corridor. A sudden flash as she lifted her hand to duck under a pipe reminded her of the tracker. "Clint?" When he turned, she held out her hand. "Could this be a problem?"

"Damn." Clint frowned. "Yeah. Possibly." He thought for a second. "Change of plans."

Coulson didn't look up at the slight click he heard from the wall, but a light thump and Natasha's voice were unexpected, causing him to look over, spotting her standing there and snapping at the air vent, "Clint, you had to make me end up in _here_?"

A muffled "distraction!" was all that he could make out.

"Distraction?" Coulson asked, going back to his work. "On second thought, I don't want to know, just so that I can deny all knowledge of whatever you two are getting up to."

"_I'm_ not getting up to anything," Natasha threw herself into a chair, primly crossing her ankles and clasping her hands on her knees. "_I'm_ just sitting here, like a good little Tasha."

"Ah." Coulson shook his head. "Pranks. Frankly, it's about time, as long as he stays away from my quarters." He looked at Natasha. "He _is_ staying away from my quarters, right?"

"As far as I know, yes. And since you don't want to know anything, I'm not going to tell you that he's going after Director Fury, since he was the one who released those videos when I first got here." Natasha enjoyed the way that Coulson's lips twitched slightly, and let the amusement she was feeling out in a small giggle that rapidly became a laugh. "I don't know what else he's got planned, though."

"Well, since you're here," Coulson was sorting through the files on his desk, "take a look and tell me what you think." He handed a couple to Natasha.

She skimmed the first one, then went back to the beginning and carefully started to read it. "Do you have a dictionary? There are a few things I don't understand." Natasha watched Coulson glance over his desk, then shake his head. "No worries, then. I think I have the general idea."

"No, it is a problem." Coulson stood up, stacking up the files on his desk, then typing on his computer. "Here, we've one on the network. It might not be perfect, but it should get the meanings across. If you spot any errors, write them down and I'll get them fixed." Moving out from behind the desk, he motioned to Natasha to take his spot.

"Thank you," Natasha was surprised at the consideration she was being shown. Sitting down, she watched Coulson claim the chair that she'd been in, going back to his work. Following his lead, she continued working through the papers that he'd given her.

A ringing phone made her jump slightly. "Coulson. No, Romanoff's here, not sure where Barton is. I'm having her look over the one from the Army and the one in Nicaragua. Yes sir." Hanging the phone up, he looked at Natasha. "There's a fine art to managing everybody here. Have you read the file on the Army? Any questions?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Because, _Agent_ Romanoff, you've been cleared by Psych as of today's meeting, which means that we can shove you into the field and let you start working through a pile of things that can use your particular skill set. I'll let you stay cleared as long as you don't try to pull something again like you did with Shostakov."

"Which part? The gala, or interrogation?" Natasha didn't quite know what to think, that they were trusting her this quickly. She almost felt...honored, was really the best word she could think of.

"Gala. You quite nicely put quite a few people at risk for discovery there, and if that happens again I'm not quite sure what will happen." Coulson frowned slightly at Natasha.

"There isn't anybody else that I can think of that would cause the same reaction." Natasha nodded her understanding at the unspoken warning. "So you were thinking that it would be a pair situation for this Army operation? And might we continue this discussion in the mess hall? Frankly, it's late, I'm starving, Clint said that we'd get dinner when he was done doing whatever he's not doing, and that was a while ago."

* * *

Somewhere along the way to the mess hall Clint just appeared, grabbing the file out of Natasha's hands and reading it as they walked. "Army, Coulson?" He sounded slightly surprised.

"Yes. Fury's orders, it's both you and Natasha."

"So he's playing politics again." Clint shrugged, handing the file back to Natasha. "Who gets to be the Army person?"

"You, probably, since I don't know anything about how to act," Natasha opened the file, looking at the notes she'd written, "as an officer."

"You also look a bit too young to be the rank that'll be needed." Coulson observed. He waited until they had all gotten food before continuing. "So, here's what's going on. You're right, Clint, it's a favor, partially because the Army investigators asked us to help; their guys have been discovered a couple times trying to track down this leak. We are coordinating with them, or else you'd all just end up tripping over each other. So, how it's going to work. You two go in undercover, then they come roaring in if needed. You can figure out a cover story on your own. Natasha, you'll have to connect with other civilians on the base, so maybe you can tell me what sorts of things you find fun, and I'll see what the base and surrounding area offers."

"Fun?" Natasha felt confused. "I don't understand."

"What do you like to do to relax. Working out and shooting is all well enough, but is that everything?" Coulson elaborated.

"I...don't know." Natasha really didn't, she realized, and that shook her more than the fact that she'd been told that she was going undercover, with Clint, for who knew how long, on a US military base. "Watching movies and spending time with Clint? I enjoyed some of the dance lessons I had when I was younger, too."

"Think about it." Coulson turned to Clint. "Cover story by Wednesday, and when are you done for the semester?"

"Two weeks." Clint stretched. "Maybe three, depending on the finals schedule and how my grades look." He suddenly froze, arms still over his head, and Natasha looked over to see Director Fury standing behind Clint. "Heya, sir," he said cheerfully, lowering his arms and grabbing at his plate. "Chicken?"

"Agent Barton, come with me." Fury had his hand grasping Clint's collar, and used it to haul the archer up from his seat and out of the mess hall, whispers and laughter spreading in their wake.

"Clint has yet to completely get one over on Director Fury." Coulson calmly kept eating. "For all that he tries, he just keeps missing _something_ when he breaks into Fury's quarters and office, and I'm not going to tell you what, simply because it's fun to watch. I don't get involved, because I made it clear from the beginning that Clint could give it only if he could take it, and so far it's been restricted to attempts at mild humiliation and general annoyance. My policy will remain the same as long as the attempts remain the same, not to mention that it's good training. Don't ask me why Clint does it, or why Fury retaliates the way he does, I've long since decided that I'm not going to think about it. Fury sees some sort of potential for something in Clint, but that's as much as he's told me, and I'm not willing to theorize because it's all above my paygrade. Clint just seems to like annoying Fury and has from day one. Questions?"

"Not for you." Natasha stood up, picking up her and Clint's trays, leaving the mess hall.

* * *

A knock on her door was all the warning Natasha had before Clint entered, holding a file folder and his laptop. "Need to work on this," he said, sitting down at her desk. "I've been looking at some stuff, and it'll need to be a super-deep cover for the both of us – backgrounds, pictures, the works. I've done some military before, actually technically I _am_ an Army officer through some strange deal although it really doesn't mean anything outside of being able to go in and clean up messes, so I've got a good chunk down for myself, but it's incorporating you that's giving me fits." He paused. "Can you cook?"

"Not well." Natasha moved to look over his shoulder. "And probably nothing that you'd enjoy. I don't always enjoy it, myself."

"You'd be surprised what I'll eat. And me, I burn water." Clint nodded. "So, got some more information from Coulson about this gig. We know that there are leaks, but we don't know from which side of the equation – military personnel or their dependents, so we both get to do some sniffing around." He reached back, grabbing Natasha's wrist and pulled her around, onto his lap. "We know a bit about what you did on some of your stuff for Red Room, but need to know, how did you work, and what issues might pop up."

"Hmm." Natasha hummed, leaning back against Clint's chest. "It depended on a variety of factors. What, or who, I was going after. Where. How long I had to complete my mission. How paranoid my target was, and what my target liked. Like I said, I once spent a year working my way into a couple's confidence. Patience isn't the issue. What is the issue is learning the environment; I don't know anything about the American military. Given time to study and observe, I can probably work my way into almost any place that I would need to go. I already know that I could go undercover on a college campus, just from following you around. The other issue that I can think of is that this level of deep cover will require a bit more work than I'm used to, if your classmates are anything to go by. I'll need to have a ready story for _everything_."

"Military is a bit different, but yeah, us 'mericans can be incredibly nosy." Clint rested his head on Natasha's shoulder as he reached around her, pulling up the internet on his computer. "There should be some information for military spouses online, which should be a good starting point for you. Remind me later, you'll need a computer, too."

"Spouses?" Natasha lightly tapped Clint's leg. "Nobody said anything about that."

"We're going overseas, and so you'd have to be classified as a military dependent to be able to stay on base with me. You could pass as Coulson's kid, _kinda_; you could probably pull off being a teenager and he can manage being pretty damn old, but he's not going to be there. Wife is the only option."

"Okay." Natasha shrugged, feeling Clint's surprise at her ready acceptance. "Next time, though, tell me what you're thinking right away."

"Sure." Clint kept typing. "Same to you. So, I was thinking, take a look at what I used last time I did some stuff with the Army, maybe we can start working something out for you from that. And see if you can guess what's actually real and what isn't."

Ignoring the way that Clint started playing with her hair the minute she leaned forward, Natasha read through what was on the screen. "Since I doubt that you played in a marching band in high school, I am going to guess that you enjoy hiking?"

"That first one's a gimme." Clint lightly tugged at Natasha's hair. "Keep going. There's a kids game called 'Two truths and a lie.' I use the same ratio for everything, keeps it a bit simpler. So if I say that I love water-skiing, which I don't, by the way, I'll also admit to liking hiking and my favorite movie genre. Total sci-fi fan, if you haven't figured that out yet."

"Just a little." Natasha held up two fingers about an inch apart, feeling Clint shake as he laughed.

"Nice, Nat. Nice. See if I share my pudding with you again."

"Hah. I'll just take it." Natasha went back to reading. "How did you figure out what you like to do?"

"Me? Didn't, really, until I got here. Always was a fan of people-watching, because folks who go to the circus can have some of the funniest faces. It just came in time, though; feeding curiosity about something led to discovering that hey, that activity was fun. That led to other things. So don't stress about finding perfection, it'll come in time." He lightly squeezed her sides. "And that's crying out to be a double entendre, but we've got real work to do now, as much as I'd like to toss you over my shoulder and take you to bed."

Natasha shook her head. "I don't understand how you can be so smart and professional one second, and then be getting dragged out of the mess hall by your collar the next. You confuse me."

"You sound like Coulson. Are you sure you're 22? But this is work and personal experience talking. I just like to piss people off because I can, and it's fun. Call it a hobby."

"Coulson said something about good training, too." Natasha looked over her shoulder at Clint.

"He's _still_ on about that? I swear, after six years, you'd think that he'd realize that I know at least a little about what I'm doing."

"He didn't say for who. He also said that there's a fine art to managing everybody here, so he might have been talking about people other than you."

"Point. Let's get back to this; Radar wanted to have you work with his team tomorrow morning, and I've an early final."


	12. Chapter 12

Undercover time. The author had trouble with this one.

* * *

People were always moving in and out, so nobody was surprised to see a young couple hauling things into the recently vacated apartment. The only questions for the current residents were rank, assignment, and names.

"Nat, babe, can you grab...yeah, that's the one." Clint turned around, seeing somebody already holding the door. "Thank you, ma'am. Nice day today, don't you think?"

"You're most certainly welcome, Captain. Welcome to the base. I'm Lisa. This your first time in Korea?"

"I was here a couple years ago, just passing through, but this is Nat's first time. She's new to this whole Army thing, actually." Clint glanced over at Natasha as she walked up. "Lisa, Natalie. Nat, this is Lisa. Sorry, we're a little jet-lagged, the flight over was kinda rough."

"Hi." Natasha smiled, a little faintly. Clint wasn't lying; they'd flown commercial, and the flight had been full of turbulence and upset children. At least they'd gotten an exit row. "It's nice to meet you. Clifton, honey, did you say there was a map of the base in there? We're going to need some stuff from the store. PX. Commissary. Whatever it's called."

Clint glanced at his watch, clearly unsure. "I kinda gotta go do some official work stuff, but yeah, I've a map somewhere in the pile of papers that they gave us. You feel up to getting turned around on your own?"

"It's not all that hard to find; it's actually within walking distance." Lisa couldn't help but offer. "Natalie, I could show you where things are, if you'd like? I'll just need to grab my purse and make sure the kitten hasn't destroyed the things I left out."

"Oh, that'd be lovely, thank you." Natasha put a large smile on her face. Right now, all she wanted to do was go over everything she had brought about her cover story again and sleep, but integration was more important. "Sweetie, do you think we need to bring anything else up right now, or can it wait until later?"

"So, your husband said that you were new to all this?" Lisa looked at Natasha out of the corner of her eye as the two left the apartment building. "Is this your first time overseas?"

Natasha played with the ring that Coulson had tossed at her as they were leaving for the airport. She didn't want to think about how he'd gotten one that fit. "Yeah. We were married just a little bit ago, then found out that Clifton was being sent here as a last-minute posting. I've been to London, but this is my first time in Asia. It's also my first time living on an Army base, so I really appreciate your help."

"Well, it probably won't be as different at you think it'll be, at least on the base. Off the base, just be polite and you shouldn't have too many difficulties." Lisa turned to enter a building. "So, what sort of work do you do?"

"I taught some self-defense classes; also worked at a range, doing some teaching there, as well. It's actually where I met Clifton. Now?" Natasha shrugged. "Not quite sure what I can do here, besides learn to live with him."

"It'll get better. You can check out the MWR office; they've got some activities. There may also be some civilian jobs open, but I wouldn't know; I do the stay-at-home mom thing."

* * *

"I think," Natasha stared at Clint that evening as they were eating dinner, "that this is going to be interesting."

"Yeah," he frowned slightly. "Probably." Looking around their apartment, he continued, "we're going to need to figure out where the secure stuff'll be kept; I'm thinking bedroom for now. Have any idea what you're going to do?"

"Finish unpacking and getting everything put out, see what sort of troubles I can get into." Natasha took a bite of her spaghetti. "Maybe find a cookbook and practice a couple things, try to talk with some of the other people in the building." She reached out, flipping through the file. "Are we sure that the leak is coming from this building?"

"As far as the tech guys have figured out, yeah." A knock on the door had Natasha slamming the file shut and sliding it in a box on the table. A nod, and Clint went to answer the door. "Evening. Would you like to come in? Sorry about the mess."

Natasha turned around in her seat as a man and a woman, both in uniform, entered. "Hello?" She cautiously called out, standing up to go join Clint as he shut the door.

"Long time no see, Captain, which raises the question of who you are and what you're doing. Little odd to watch a man go through sniper training as a Private, fall off the face of the Earth, then reappear as an officer. Not to mention, the downright odd records in the system."

"Also raises the question of just who you are, since the last time I saw you, you were going by the name of Staff Sergeant Jones, not Captain Black." Clint's voice was steady. "You'd think that CID would think before accusing." He glanced at Natasha. "Nat, get Colonel Fury. Now. Use my laptop."

Natasha kept a careful eye on the two strangers as she edged around them for Clint's laptop, which was sitting on a box. Opening it, she keyed up the SHIELD video chat program, typing in Fury's code. "Waiting on him." Sitting back, she looked between the three people still standing. "Why don't you all sit down and continue your staring contest in comfort."

"Already?" Fury sounded annoyed, and looked even more so. "You two have been there less than a day and you're already having problems. Show me."

Natasha turned the laptop around. "Colonel Fury."

"Sir, this has already turned into a total cluster." Clint didn't look at the computer. "Been recognized by somebody who I knew as somebody else. Would like to know just who he really is, why CID didn't tell us that they had assets in place, and what to do about it. Was Staff Sergeant Jones, Army Sniper School, now is Captain Black...looks like he's here as Logistics. Teamed up with a Lieutenant Black, Communications."

Faint clicking could be heard. "Coulson, Jones, get on it," Fury commanded. "Okay. What we do know right now is that they're not there for the same reason. You all sit still."

"Just who are you, to be giving us orders?" The woman spoke up for the first time.

"Colonel Nick Fury. Classified, and classified, until we figure out what's going on. Not to mention, none of your damn business."

The room fell silent, and Natasha stood up with a sigh. Walking to the kitchen, she brought out several cans of soda. "Here," she said, passing them out. "Clint, this usually happen to you?"

"Nope." Clint shook his head, taking the can she handed him. "But usually don't do stuff for the Army, and after this not totally sure I'm going to agree to again."

"Barton and Romanoff." Fury's voice made everybody jump. "Meet Warrant Officers Johnston and Hill of CID. They're tracking down some drug dealers. Warrants, meet Agents Barton and Romanoff of SHIELD. They're tracking down information leaks. Now, you four can freely admit to having met, or continue on your way and ignore each other. Warrants, you left too many records of your searching, which we will take care of. Barton, you're getting lazy. Romanoff...don't fuck up. Out."

"Cool." Clint visibly relaxed. "Don't ever do anything like that again, understand Warrants? He really is a Colonel. You see us around again, we've never met, unless you're told otherwise. Cool?"

"Yes, sir. So, Clark Johnston and Maria Hill. CID, as the Colonel said. Don't think that anybody saw us knocking, so we'll play dumb and not admit to knowing you in the past. We're in the next building over." Maria answered Clint while looking around the apartment. "Clark, if SHIELD shows up, it's a situation where you really don't want to know. Stuff – and people – have a way of disappearing if too many questions are asked."

"Yep." Clint nodded. "So, now that this little comedy of errors has been resolved, we'll let you know if we hear anything about drugs." He escorted the two CID agents to the door. Shutting it, and flipping the lock, he turned around and looked at Natasha. "I'm not lazy."

Natasha laughed, returning to the table and pulling out the file she'd been looking at. "Okay." Glancing around, she thought for a second. "Do we have to put out all those pictures? Can't we just leave them in the box, or better yet, accidentally throw them away?"

"What, you don't want any memories of our whirlwind romance and elopement that was incredibly dramatic and was the talk of the Helicarrier for _minutes_?" Clint gave her a cheerful grin. "Cover, Nat, cover. Besides, maybe I'd like a few reminders of how good you can make a bikini look."

Natasha just rolled her eyes. "You are so...male."

Clint sauntered over to stand behind her, bending down and flipping open the file. Sorting through it, he snorted softly. "Don't hear you complaining." Suddenly shoving the file away, he ran a hand up Natasha's arm. "Done?"

Natasha leaned slightly into Clint's touch, before reaching up and grabbing his hand. Twisting around, she used the momentum to duck under his arm and stand up. "With that, yes. With you...not so much." Lightly running her free hand up his chest, she gave him a wide-eyed look, "now, Captain, what _were_ you thinking of doing with this poor little girl?"

"Poor, I'll give you that, little, yeah, okay, girl," Clint grabbed Natasha around the waist, sitting her on the table, "like _hell_. Woman, do you have _any_ idea?"

Wrapping her legs around his waist, Natasha levered herself up, wrapping one arm behind his neck, feeling his hands shift to better support her. With her free hand, she started unbuttoning his shirt. "Oh yes," she purred. "And I _like_ that." She couldn't cover her yawn, and felt Clint start to laugh.

"Bedtime instead, maybe?" Clint started heading for the bedroom. "Noticed you didn't get much sleep on the plane."

"Damn," Natasha grumbled as he dumped her on the bed. "I have _needs_, you know." She sat up, pulling her shirt off.

"Yep." Clint nodded. "Know that. Like that."

Natasha slowly continued undressing, but gave up when Clint just tossed a shirt at her head. Realizing that it was one of his, she just gave him a look as she pulled it on. "What is it with men and wanting women to wear their clothes?"

"Mmmm...think of it as less our clothing, more seeing you look damn sexy in something that doesn't require any effort." Clint slowly moved forward. "It's like Christmas. You not showing everybody how hot you are, and then I get to unwrap it alll for myself." He ended up behind Natasha, breath hot on her ear. "Or maybe it truly just is a primal urge to claim things, as a psych professor was so fond of saying. She was a bit of a man-hater." He turned Natasha around, and gave her a light push.

Natasha fell back on the bed, glaring at Clint. "Men." She snapped, then growled under her breath as he tossed a blanket over her. Giving up, she just rolled over as she felt him crawl in next to her, draping one arm over her waist and pulling her close.

* * *

Natasha was feeling distinctly frazzled after a month with no progress, so when Clint walked in one night, she burst out her chair. "Lets go."

"Go?" Clint glanced between her and the laptop that she'd hurriedly slapped shut. "Where? Why?"

"There's a movie showing. We can go watch a basketball tournament. I'm getting upset."

"How about a guest?" Clint moved in from the door, allowing Natasha to see Coulson, waiting patiently in the hall. "C'mon in, Unk. Nat, you know my Uncle, right?"

"We've met," Natasha nodded, then glanced between Clint and Coulson as the door shut. "Problems?"

"Checking up on you two in person." Coulson dropped a bag next to the door. "Have some more information that was deemed too sensitive to be sent electronically, which might help you both out. Incidentally, Clint, what was your take on Warrent Officer Hill?"

"She knows of SHIELD, so that's one plus for her." Clint shrugged. "But that's all that I can say. She didn't take charge until after she'd been officially introduced, so dunno."

Natasha moved forward, taking the files that Coulson handed her. Sitting at the table, she ignored the conversation the two men were having in favor of reading. "Bah," she shook her head. "No wonder. Clint, new information, come see this."

"Huh," he said, reading over her shoulder. "Well, guess that makes my life easier. Sucks to be you, though."

"Thanks. Any ideas how I can actually _work_ with the wives of the enlisted? They don't want to say much to me." That was the root cause of Natasha's annoyance. No matter what she tried, there were clearly defined lines that people didn't want to cross. She'd tried friendly, curious, lost...and the best connection she'd made was with the wife of a Captain two floors up. "I'm about to start breaking into apartments and placing bugs."

"Rather you didn't," Coulson moved to look over Natasha's other shoulder. "Ideally, you'd be keeping everything as legal as possible, or at least without running the risk of being discovered."

"I wouldn't _be_ caught." Natasha frowned.

"Although, Coulson, I am disagreeing with them saying that it's all on the civilian side." Clint was flipping through the data. "Because stuff _this_ classified, nobody's supposed to be talking about it outside the office." He pulled out a piece of paper. "Nat, take a look."

"Ah." Natasha nodded, then glanced at Coulson. "Is hacking allowed?"

"Preferably white hat, but if you can justify it, then anything goes." Coulson headed for the kitchen. "Clint, Natasha, you two eaten yet?" Natasha heard him opening cupboards.

"No. It's Wednesday, so cereal night." Natasha smiled when she heard Coulson's snort.

"Clint, you've been teaching her even more bad habits, haven't you." Coulson walked out of the kitchen, holding a can. "Natasha, we never did ask you if you were able to cook better than Clint, did we."

"Clint did." Natasha nodded. "Never had much of a need, and the food I do know is either an acquired taste or wouldn't fit in with the cover."

Coulson smirked. "At least you're not asking Clint to touch the stove."

"Hey!" Clint sounded mildly outraged. "I can do a mean scrambled egg."

"Yes, until you get distracted by something shiny, or forget to make sure that you got all the eggshell pieces out because you still can't crack a damn egg neatly."

"The last time, you were shining a flashlight in my face." Clint argued. "I couldn't see. Of _course_ something would end up burning."

"You asked for light. I gave you light. Let's go, Natasha, I'll show you something that's easy to make, will fit in with your cover, and won't make Clint bitch about eating healthy food. Just need some stuff from the store."

* * *

"For the love of," Natasha muttered. "Clint, would you _stop hovering_ already? The scan will be done when it's done."

"You don't need to yell at _me_," Clint snapped back. "I'm just getting fucking tired of having to do this military thing. You'd think that after two damn months, _something_ would've shaken loose."

"Then get your computer and _help_." Natasha shoved back from the table, standing up and moving in front of Clint. "Or shut up and stop annoying me. I've come to the point where I need to either hit something or shoot something, and I'm only seeing _one_ target right now."

Clint glared at her. "_Don't_ push me, Natasha. I'm damn near feeling the same way." He shook his head, jaw tight. "Does that need to be watched, or can we get out of the apartment for an hour or so?"

"We can." Natasha gave Clint a level look. "What were you thinking."

"Gym." Clint ran one hand through his hair, frustrated. "You've got that nice cover of being a self-defense teacher. We want to start smacking things, why not get our frustrations out with each other at the same time. Basic rules – no killing each other, no broken bones, try to avoid bruising my fair flesh too much, 'cause I know how fast _your_ bruises heal up. Deal?"

"Deal." Natasha went to get changed.

Being able to spar with Clint for the first time in two months helped restore Natasha's equilibrium, and she found herself in a much better mood when they returned. Ignoring the computer, she glanced over her shoulder at Clint. "I'm going to go take a shower. Maybe you'd like to...help me wash my back?"

"I don't know," Clint grinned at her. "Maybe I should be the one asking that." He stretched slightly, before continuing. "You got a couple good hits in. Bystanders were impressed, it looked like."

"Self-defense." Natasha nodded, moving to stand in front of Clint, tugging at his shirt. "And teaching all those young men out there that this lady is not one to annoy."

"Young men?" Clint didn't move. "You do realize that some of them are older than you?"

"I have been working since I was ten, and in some sort of training since I was seven." Natasha nodded. "To me, they are young." She squeaked, then, as Clint suddenly moved, tossing her over his shoulder.

"C'mon. You wanted a shower." Natasha could feel Clint tugging at her shoes. "And maybe _I_ want a shower." A beep made him pause, swinging around to the table. Setting Natasha down, he muttered, "every damn time. I swear, _something's_ wrong with my life."

Natasha ignored him, pulling up the scan results. "What do you think about leaving?" She grinned at Clint. "May have something here. Look." She pointed at her computer screen. "Apartment 1B."

Clint's eyes narrowed. "That...kinda makes sense. And I'm wondering _why_ everybody overlooked it. That was one of the families you were having trouble with, right?"

"Yes." Natasha nodded. "But now I can try and track things down."

Clint nodded, picking up the phone. "Good. Lemme call it in." He quirked an eyebrow at Natasha. "All sorts of things that can...Hey Jonesy, it's Clifton. Tell Uncle C he needs a new car, the engine just fell out of his. Yeah, exactly. Thanks, bye." He shook his head. "Codewords. Stupid shit. But there are enough paranoid folks around, me included, that it gets interesting." Grinning, he grabbed Natasha's hand. "We both need showers, Tasha, and we can also be happy with the fact that we didn't kill each other and I have another reason to annoy the one-eyed bastard because he was playing with us. I'm gonna wait until you're done, since one of us should be here to answer the phone. Or the door."

"Oh?" Natasha let Clint drag her away from the table.

"It clicked. This wasn't something that the two of us needed to do, let alone get SHIELD involved, even though some of that stuff was pushing into our territory. The whole CID getting discovered was them being sloppy and an excuse. Fury's playing games. He _likes_ games." Clint laughed. "Too bad for him, I'm getting _good_ at those games, too." Quirking an eyebrow, he nodded at the hallway. "So, you were going to shower, then I was going to shower, then we were going to call up those two CID agents and dump all this in their laps unless we hear otherwise before then."

"You don't want to get any more proof?" Natasha paused in the door to the bathroom. "Because I'm not completely sure that it is them."

"Nah." Clint called out. "Because what you did manage to dig up is good enough for me, and it'll give others enough information to go and actually search and ask questions."


	13. Chapter 13

This is not Budapest. Budapest of movie fame won't be touched. Disagreements, fighting, nightmares, threats. High heels.

* * *

"I blame you for this!" Natasha didn't look behind her as she swapped out clips in the gun.

"_Me_?" Clint kept firing. "What did _I_ do?" He sounded baffled.

"I _had_ it, then you got antsy!" Natasha focused on her next set of targets. "Please say that backup will be here soon."

"Listen to the baby agent." Natasha couldn't tell if Clint was teasing her or not. She suspected he was. "They'd better be, I'm running low." She felt a light nudge on the back of her calf. "And really, Nat, they had guns."

"So? I had a knife!" Natasha heard an explosion and felt Clint start to turn around. "I was on my way out!" A quick glance over her shoulder had her swinging around, as well.

"Yeah, yeah. Hey, feel up to swinging by school with me? IR professor wants the girlfriend to visit a couple classes, and Wendy's invited us out. Think they think I owe 'em both for missing _another_ semester." Clint glanced up. "Barton. About damn time. What happen, need to stop and ask for directions?" He laughed. "Whatever. Nat, they're coming in from your side."

"And that's another thing." Natasha kept her eyes open, trying to be careful in where she shot. "What did you tell them? For somebody who doesn't say much to people, you are surprisingly talkative with the people at your school."

"I told them maybe, it all depended on you getting off work. Can we talk about this later? Little busy here." Clint suddenly sounded annoyed. "Dammit, I need a bigger quiver, especially if you're going to get me into this sort of situation on a regular basis. Or a second gun so that I can give you one and still have a backup weapon."

"Right." Natasha glanced around, spotting a group of men with arrows in them not too far away. She ignored Clint's startled shout as she slapped the gun into his hand and jumped over their makeshift barricade, sprinting over and yanking out the arrows. As she jumped back to stand next to Clint, dropping the arrows on the ground next to him and reclaiming the gun, she saw men dressed in SHIELD uniforms start to come around the corner. "They're here."

* * *

"Dammit, Nat, what in the hell was that?" Clint kept his voice low, but his entire posture was tense.

"I should be asking you the same thing!" Natasha snapped back, not trying to stay quiet. A quick glare around the back of the Quinjet had everybody very carefully looking away from the pair. "The goal was information and then _maybe_ assassination after the intelligence had been analyzed. I had the information, and then what happened?"

"Men were waiting for you." Clint sank back into his seat, somehow fitting himself along the side of the jet. Natasha couldn't figure out how he did it. "You were about to walk right into them. Didn't get a good count, but there were at least ten, plus the four that were following you. Not to mention, that little dash you did? Thanks for the arrows and all, but."

"I could have taken them." Natasha scowled, glaring at the floor.

"One of you, against that many? You're good Nat, but c'mon, I don't want to lose," Clint broke off, clenching his jaw.

"What's that line from Star Wars? Anger, fear, aggression?" Natasha lightly nudged Clint in his side.

"Turning it all around on me? Not cool. Let's finish this discussion later." Clint shook his head, leaning against Natasha and falling asleep. With another glare at the stares they were getting, Natasha did the same.

* * *

"Agents Barton and Romanoff." Coulson leaned back in his chair, staring at the two of them. "What the hell happened? It was just supposed to be a simple in and out, well within your skill sets Romanoff, and all of a sudden we get the call that a 'little help would be nice,' Barton, and it's discovered that you two are in a rather intense firefight."

"She was about to get jumped, sir." Clint was sitting very stiffly, Natasha noticed, one hand firmly gripping his knee.

"And I had weapons!" Natasha turned in her chair to glare at Clint. "I would have been fine!"

"One of you against that many? You had a knife! They had guns! There are _rules_ about bringing a damned knife to a fucking _gunfight_! Namely, you _don't_!"

"Hey!" Coulson barely raised his voice, but it was enough to make the two turn around with matching glares. He just glared back. "Bad calls on both sides, obviously. Romanoff, what happened to your radio?"

"It was too obvious." Natasha scowled. "They're either too large or uncomfortable."

"Okay." Coulson was scribbling notes. "I'll pass that along, you can have one custom fit, although _I_ may just choose the color. Barton, was there another way to warn her without causing bloodshed?"

"Not that I could see." Clint shook his head.

"Fine. Bad decisions on _both_ your parts, figure out how you could have done everything better. I can think of at least three, and I wasn't even there. Go see Medical and Psych, both of you, and _don't_ make me follow you around, Barton. There are a few places who are short a security guard or two, I might just volunteer you myself. Romanoff, I can and will think of something just as bad for you. After you've gotten done with that, finish doing whatever it is you two need to do and see me tomorrow at 11. I want written reports by midnight tonight." When Clint and Natasha didn't move, Coulson frowned at them both. "Have you both gone deaf? Am I speaking a language that neither of you understand? Should I repeat myself in Russian, Agent Romanoff? Or brainless archer, Agent Barton? Get out of my office. Now!"

Natasha glanced over at Clint as they walked out of Coulson's office. "Was what happened enough to make him that mad?"

Clint was shaking his head before she'd even finished. "I didn't think so. It's gotten screwed up even worse in the past, he just shakes his head and camps out next to my bed in Medical. Always steals the tray table. Makes eating interesting sometimes." He grimaced, looking uncomfortable. "I really don't like waking up there. Need somebody I trust waiting when I do." He took a breath. "No, I think that he's pissed off because between the two of us, we shattered some kinda important protocols. You were very much out of communication with everybody, I didn't use my brain, and probably something else. He'll tell us why he's mad when he apologizes. I think there may have been more going on there than what happened with the two of us."

"Does he usually apologize?"

"When he's wrong? Yeah. It takes a couple days, sometimes, to make him realize that maybe he has something to apologize for, but he will." Clint sighed, grabbing Natasha's arm and making her stop. "Look, Nat, I know I've got a fucked-up brain, I took psych classes and I've hacked into my files. I know that I can be overly protective and paranoid. I just try to roll with it because I _know_ the root cause and _have_ tried to deal with it, but I might need a smack upside the head if I get too annoying because I forget and start to act like I did earlier. It's all too ingrained in my base personality, and there's my apology for what happened and not thinking.." Draping his arm over her shoulders, he continued, "now let's go, before Coulson makes good on his security threat. He usually finds the worst spots for that sort of thing. Ended up in _Antarctica_ of all places, once." He shuddered. "At least it was only for a week, until the next flight got there. I'm still trying to figure out just why SHIELD has research going on down there. Will say, it does make a good place to cool off. Literally."

Natasha laughed lightly, winking at a passing crewmember. "And I am sorry. I am too used to working on my own that I have to try to remember that I have a partner sometimes. Obviously this was one of those times." Turning, she watched as the crewmember flushed and ran off. "I love doing that. But. I also made more mistakes that could have, should have, been fatal, such as not having you carry my weapons. And choosing this to wear, instead of something a bit looser."

"Don't know, Nat," Clint grinned, staring at her dress. "It sure made getting in easier. Which reminds me. You have a usual uniform you like to wear when it's just pure fighting, and not requiring you to look like sex on two legs?"

"As long as I can move, it doesn't matter." Natasha shrugged. "Although I'm not quite sure about what some people here wear."

Clint snorted. "_Nobody_ should be looking like a Star Trek extra. This is SHIELD, not Hollywood. I can't tell the color exactly outside of blue, but c'mon, I know that they're far from flattering. And hard to put some Kevlar in them."

"That's another thing." Natasha paused, glanced around, then quickly knelt and took off her shoes with a relieved sigh. "Better. Cheap high heels should be banned, but the comfortable ones are too expensive. What is it with you and colors?"

"For every gift, there's always something taken away." Clint nodded firmly. "I'm trying to sound wise, here, so please be appropriately appreciative of the fact that I've got four, five years of wisdom on you." He ignored Natasha's snort. "I've got some mad crazy vision, but I'm blue-yellow colorblind. I'm the only one who can draw my bow and actually keep tension on it for a bit, but I've got those issues that I've told you about. I've just had the time to make it work for me so all the negatives about my life usually don't end up being problems when it matters." He glanced down at Natasha. "You?"

"I, Clint, am perfect." Natasha ducked Clint's playful swipe with a large smile. "Fine. I get angry easily. I, too, can worry, and suspect that I would have done the same if our positions were reversed. I have far too many nightmares about my past. There are times that I don't think, or properly plan. I have been designed for a single function, and that is the function that I am the best at, although these past few months have taught me quite a bit about living. And the rest will have to wait, since while Coulson may send you off to someplace dreadful, I don't want to find out what he could come up with for me." She frowned, entering Medical. "And I'm still mad at you, by the way."

"Feeling's mutual. I'm just pretending that everything's cool for the general public right now." Clint smirked at Natasha. "Gym after this? I think that getting our anger out with each other on the mats actually works pretty well."

"Yes." Natasha nodded. "And maybe I can show you just how, exactly, I was planning on bringing my knife to a gunfight. While in heels. I'd demonstrate in this dress, but I'd rather not destroy it if possible. It wasn't cheap, and they're refusing to pay me back for it."

* * *

Natasha lightly rolled her shoulders as she slipped on her high heels and stepped onto the mat, holding a practice knife. "So then. Four behind me and ten around the corner, you said?" She glanced around at the men who'd volunteered to join in; they had a mixture of excitement and dread on their faces. "I promised not to kill any of you, or send you to Medical, or even make you want an ice pack." Unable to easily rock back on her heels, she lightly bounced in place.

Clint moved to the edge of the mat. "Yep. With guns."

"Okay." Natasha nodded, then went on the offensive. Clint stood back slightly, watching, as she jumped into the middle of the larger group. With a low whistle, he shook his head, before joining in. He suspected Coulson was watching on the security feeds, because nobody came to break it up until he and Natasha had had a chance to work out their anger with each other.

* * *

Natasha hadn't quite finished her report when she heard a knock on the door and Clint came in, holding his laptop. "Hello. It's a good thing I like you, you know."

"I know. And I wanted to tell you more, now that we're away from prying eyes. And ears." Natasha watched as Clint sat on the edge of her bed. She hadn't seen him look nervous in a while, so his expression startled her slightly. "So, questions? I'm feeling chatty, so use it."

"Why do you call yourself over-protective and paranoid?" Natasha stretched slightly, arching her back.

"Wench." Clint didn't look at her. "I'm immune to that, understand? Paranoia and over-protective. You and Coulson. Only two people that I completely trust, more than I've trusted anybody since before my brother ditched me and I ended up in Juvie; didn't trust anybody after that until Coulson gave me a few verbal smackdowns, showed me that yeah, can't get by without having somebody to trust. Took me a bit once I got here, but I've realized that I like having a couple friends, friends who know when to push and when to shut the hell up, friends who don't have any expectations of me. I'd do damn near anything for SHIELD these days, as long as it was for the good of SHIELD. Those friends, Coulson and you and to a very lesser extent Fury, are one of the ways that I think of SHIELD. Everybody else here, they're like…furniture. Useful, but you generally don't have conversations with your chair. I just don't want to lose my friends."

"And that reminds me. You are incredibly social with your classmates. Why?"

"It's a cover. My cover is a guy who is mostly stuck at home with his parents, doesn't get out much, so needs to talk to people his own age. Well," here Clint paused, thinking. "Mentally. Sometimes. Rest of the time they're just too damn young and pushy."

Natasha just had one other question. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I'm telling you this because I want you to understand _me_, Clint Barton. Not my covers, not my masks that I put on for the benefit of most of the world." Clint shook his head. "And if you think about it, part of understanding me is realizing just how dedicated I am to the organization and a few _very_ select people."

"Ah." Natasha glanced at her report, then decided that she'd risk Coulson being upset with it being late by a couple minutes if this conversation took longer than she expected, and moved over to stretch out next to Clint. "I understand you. _All_ of you. If you haven't realized that by now, then you are being very obtuse and not thinking. As usual." She smiled. "And thank you, again, for bringing me here."

Clint hummed, deep in his chest. Natasha had found that she enjoyed hearing it. "So, what do you think about going to play the girlfriend again?"

"Not a problem." Natasha reluctantly climbed out of bed. "Same with going out with Wendy and her girlfriend. Do you think we could spend a couple days in Manhattan, first? I'd like to go shopping."

"Unless something comes up, sure. I think they've finally decided to do something once and for all about that base, so I needed to get over there and snag my bag of stuff." Clint watched her sit back down and start typing. "Do you really think that Coulson really expects us to have our reports sent to him by midnight? Man gets grumpy when he's awake too late, he's just going to put them off until about an hour before we're supposed to debrief tomorrow. I've been a bad influence on him sometimes."

"I would rather not risk his anger. I don't _want_ to think of what he could come up with." Natasha thought for a second. "I do enjoy the debriefings and reports that SHIELD expects. The Red Room was much harsher. There was a lot more yelling at times, for one, and they never sent back my reports with _corrections_."

"Cool." Clint frowned, pulling his phone out of his pocket. Flipping it open, he laughed. "Mind if I hide out in here, Tasha? Coulson just said that if I didn't have my report to him by 11:59, _exactly_, I get to go sit in the middle of nowhere for a month. Think he's serious this time?"

"Probably, from what you have told me." Natasha nodded, e-mailing her report to Coulson. "Now, I'm going to make your poor little brain work doubly hard. While you're writing, do you now believe that I could have made it out of that situation earlier?"

"Nope. I tagged you twice." Clint smirked. "Even with one eye closed."

"And the average thug or security guard?"

"Well, if you did some of those moves in that dress you were wearing, they'd probably be a little too shocked and turned on at what they were seeing to fire, so I'll give you a maybe. I'd want to see you actually fight in that dress first, and no, that's not for my own mental image of you. It's mostly to teach folks here to back off, when you say no, you mean no. Hadn't thought of using high heels as weapons before; can see why you bitch about the cheap ones, if they break that easily."

* * *

Natasha could tell by the way her throat felt that she'd been screaming as she sat upright in bed, breathing heavily. Grabbing the first thing she could find to throw on over her nightclothes, she bolted out of her room, somehow restraining herself to only lightly tapping at Clint's door. She hadn't even had a chance to lower her hand when he was yanking it open, knife in hand. "Dammit, Tasha." He shook his head as he grabbed her hand and pulled her in. "What happened."

"You were dead." Her voice felt hoarse.

"Ah. Nightmare?" He relaxed. "C'mere." Natasha let him drag her over to his bed, and she curled up in the blankets as he carelessly dropped the knife on his desk and pulled on a shirt. "Want to talk it out?"

"Do I have a choice?" At Clint's look, Natasha sighed. "The fight. When you ran out of arrows." She paused, grabbing at the blankets and pulling them up over her head. "Is that good?"

"Nope. And no hiding, I'm not done with you yet, Tasha" Clint slid into bed, pulling the blankets off of her face. "_Damn_. Your feet are _freezing_!"

Natasha giggled. "You say that all the time."

"Because it's true! How you can have such cold feet, when you're so full of _life_ and _emotion_, I don't know. Wear some socks next time, would you?" Clint shifted, and Natasha sighed in relief as she felt him wrap his arms around her, pulling her against his chest. "So. I ran out of arrows?" He rested his chin on the top of her head. "Thank you for that, by the way. Just don't do it again."

"You ran out of arrows." Natasha was feeling herself start to relax. "I did the same thing, went to get more. But your gun didn't have the range, and when I turned around, you were hit. In the chest. Then the rest of the SHIELD fighters came around the corner and they were gunned down, too."

"Ah. So…one of those shitty post-mission nightmares where everything went wrong and you forget that my uniform has some _very_ nice body armor in it. I designed it myself, after getting hit one too many times for my liking. Have a couple ideas on how you can get some armor into yours, but just need to know what your requirements are. So, suggestion for nightmares. I rate mine on a scale, then talk it through and work out alternatives. What was yours? One to ten, ten being you die in your sleep and I'm out a friend and a partner, one being roll over and tell the aliens that you'll deal with them in the morning after you've had breakfast and a chance to read the paper."

"Six?" Natasha didn't quite know how to put it on Clint's scale, but she found his methods intriguing.

"Okay." Clint yawned. "So, how could've things worked out differently?"

"I could have used my radio, as uncomfortable as it is. You could have alerted me without killing anybody. I could have used the planned route out instead of trying for a shortcut." Natasha felt herself holding back a yawn. "I could have had you hold onto my weapons. You could have called for backup sooner. You could've chosen your shots for maximum damage instead of whatever you were thinking."

"Good lord, Tasha, you came up with all that on your own? Coulson'll be happy. _I'm_ happy that you came up with all that, because now I don't have to."

Pushing herself up, Natasha shook her head. "I'm not doing all the work here. You have to think of something yourself."

"'Kay." Clint sounded like he was already asleep. "And ask about better soundproofing around the rest of your room. Took 'em three tries for mine, still obviously doesn't work totally. Kinda heard you a bit. Oh yeah. We can go to Manhattan in two days. Have meetings and shit tomorrow."


	14. Chapter 14

Polish girlfriend and drinks and Red Room, oh my. (And birthdays)

* * *

"Sorry that we couldn't hit up Manhattan first," Clint glanced over at Natasha. "Timing, though, meant that the girlfriend was wanted on campus today and tomorrow; guess that Doctor Williams wanted her take on some things before a test."

Natasha nodded, staring out the car window. "That isn't a problem, as long as I can remember everything that they're asking. It's been a little bit since I had to think of being Natasha from Poland who lives on Long Island."

"Point." Clint blinked. "Wow. Yeah." Stopping at a red light, he twisted in his seat to stare at Natasha. "Remind me later to have a talk with you. I think I can guess your answers, but I'd like to hear them from you." He frowned slightly. "Do you want to stop off someplace first, grab a snack, and try to pull everything up again?"

"No," Natasha shook her head. "Light's green. Everything that is dramatically different is easy enough to remember. If people start to ask about personal things, I will tell them that I don't want to talk about it and look at you pleadingly. And that even though I've been here for a while, my English is still not fully, oh, what is that word that you crazy Americans use, Americanized." She let a hint of accent color her voice.

Clint laughed. "Good plan. And I don't think that this is as much international relations as it is more history; these are all introductory courses. Half the class will probably be ignoring you, a quarter'll be plotting ways to get you to the parties and back to their dorms, the rest will actually be interested and ask some decent questions." He shook his head as he pulled into a parking spot, looking over at Natasha with a grin. "Ready to brave the world of speaking to a bunch of people who will only ask, 'will this be on the test, Joe?' And never mind that Doctor Williams _hates_ being asked that and having students call him by his first name."

Natasha took a deep breath, trying to remember just how she acted before, giving Clint a bright smile. "Of course! Have a whole week off of work, so why not?"

* * *

"Doctor Williams, it is lovely to see you again!" Natasha chirped, holding out her hand to the professor. "Clint has told me so much about your classes; he said that he really enjoyed them. I know that I certainly enjoyed the ones that I visited last semester."

The professor laughed. "It's Joe, please, young lady." He quirked one eyebrow at her. "And I will say, Clint is one of my more memorable students. This school is lucky that he chose to come here, as much or as little as he does."

"So I have heard." Natasha glanced over her shoulder at Clint and the students who were starting to trickle into the room. "And so, my understanding is that you wished for me to talk to your classes, yes? About what?"

"Yes. We've been talking about the fall of the Berlin Wall, end of Communism in Europe, and they've got a test coming up next week. I was hoping that you would be willing to answer a few questions that people have, maybe talk about your experiences living in a communist society? Maybe discuss some of the after effects?"

"I can try," Natasha nodded. Moving to stand next to Clint, she murmured, "why is it that everybody associates the fall of the Berlin Wall with the total end of Communism in Europe?"

"It's a bit more visual, overly dramatic. Reagan had that one good line to Gorbachev. A city was no longer cut in two." Clint shrugged. "He does teach the whole timeline, so yes, a good chunk of Europe was 1989, East Germany was started with yeah, the Berlin Wall and the rest in 1990, the USSR was 1991."

Natasha sighed. "I remember the changing of the flags over the Kremlin. For some, it was a sad day. For others, happy. For me, it was just a day." She looked up as the professor started talking.

"Morning folks, and aren't you in for a treat today. One of my senior students introduced me to his girlfriend last semester in my seminar – of which passing this class is a prerequisite, a key thing to remember for all of you interested in majoring in International Relations – and she was willing to take time off work to come in and answer your questions about the last years of the Cold War, the fall of the Berlin Wall, and all that sort of stuff. It is in your best interest to listen; there is a test next week and she can maybe help answer any lingering questions you might have. Yes, Steven."

"So, this'll all be on the test, Joe?" Natasha held back a laugh at the look the professor was giving the student. Clint didn't, and the class turned to stare at him curiously.

"What do _you_ think, Mr. Jones? Now, Natasha? Thank you for coming."

"Thank you for inviting me, Doctor Williams," Natasha turned to face the class, leaning against the edge of a table. "My name is Natasha. I am from Poland, and immigrated to the United States after the end of Communism in my country. I was 13." She ignored Clint's startled blink and the way he quickly pulled out a pen and notepad.

* * *

"Birthdays, Nat. When is yours?"

Natasha shrugged, focusing on her meal. "Sometime. I don't know an exact date. My...childhood guardians told me April of 1977, so that was good enough." She dug out the driver's license that she'd been given, glancing at the date. "This says…January 1, 1977. That's close enough, the year is still what I've been told." She glanced around the restaurant. "And you?"

Clint frowned, reaching out to grab the card in her hand. "You still have that thing?" Sitting back, he stared at it. "Have you talked with the boss about all the legal stuff yet? Because while we can, and will, keep you here, getting you out of spending a night or two in a jail cell is a bit trickier. This," he held Natasha's license up, "probably won't stand up to the computer systems in any backwater, hack-town police station, let alone someplace like New York; since it was an overnight job that means that the techs just made stuff up and probably didn't bother hacking into computer systems. Hate to ask, but for right now, operate as if you're in with your old bosses."

Natasha nodded, seeing through what Clint was saying. "I have been, somewhat. Honestly, Clint, I spend almost all of my waking time with you, so if I'm getting into trouble, it's usually because you're the root cause."

"Me?" Clint grinned, flipping the card back at Natasha. "I will categorically deny anything having to do with, well, anything that would cause you to get into trouble."

"The other day?" Natasha stood up. "And that's just the most recent example. And call Coulson if you're _that_ worried about _this_." She waved her license at him, before tucking it away in her wallet.

"I am." Clint nodded as he held up his cell phone and the two headed for his car. "Hey, boss. Natasha. How legal is she?" He pulled the phone away from his ear slightly. "Don't have to yell, it's a legit reason to bug you. A question came up, sir, and she showed me that she's still got that forged driver's license. Birthday's wrong on it, according to Nat, but she's cool with it because turns out that she doesn't know it. Yeah. Yeah. Year's right. April, she says, at least that's what she was told." He glanced over at Natasha. "No idea about a day?" He shook his head at her look. "What was down on the rest of the make-Nat-legal paperwork then? Bailing her out of Immigration's hands isn't my idea of a fun night, and I know that you'd be the one to make, yeah. Yessir. Yessir. Out." Lightly tossing his phone, he leaned against the side of the car. "Coulson's going to figure all that out, hopefully by the time we get back to the Helicarrier."

"Okay." Natasha was having trouble understanding what the issue was. "And stop being paranoid. I haven't gotten caught yet, and if I do, I have learned the rules about what I am supposed to do and say. It is actually part of my initial training; I don't think that I've gone anyplace truly _legally_ in my life."

"Oh? Feed my curiosity?"

Natasha nodded, making herself act scared and young. Young was always the key, she'd been told. "I do not know what is going on please sir Kolya told me to drink some juice and I did and I fell asleep and woke up here and please sir I just would like to return home to my Mama and my Papa and my Nana and I do not understand what anybody is saying to me and I do not know where I am?" She spoke in Russian.

Clint laughed. "And when they put you on the airplane?"

"There are no direct flights, as far as I know. I would exit the plane at either the first or second stop and vanish. Or, if I was finished, allow them to return me to Russia at their expense. Although it never happened to me. Olga was caught, once, and they believed her story. When she returned, having been successful, they allowed us a treat with dinner. Then they put her back in training. What do you do?"

"Pull out my passport." Clint nodded. "Or, use any one of the escape routes I work out. I also keep an eye open for the local law enforcement types so that I don't get caught in the first place, and most of the time Coulson tries to be pretty close to deal with the legal side of things." Sliding into the car, he added, "and maybe come up with something other than kidnap victim. These days, it'll just turn into an investigation into human trafficking and getting you out of _that_ would be even harder."

* * *

"We have discovered what has happened to Ivan Shostakov and Natasha Romanoff. He is dead, in what appears to have been a mugging gone wrong in New York. She has turned traitor and has been seen in the company of Hawkeye and SHIELD."

"Indeed. Who turned in these reports?" The dark-suited man leaned forward. "And does there appear to be any coercion involved?"

"Ivan had sent back an initial report, prior to his planned meeting with a HYDRA representative who also has since vanished. He is presumed dead, as well, we suspect SHIELD involvement in both. He reported that he may have seen somebody resembling Natasha, but he was unsure. She was in the company of a young male, blond, wearing sunglasses. He fit the reports of Hawkeye's physical descriptions. He reported that she was not acting such as Natasha would have acted, so he was going to wait for further observations to be made. That was the final report from him. A second report was sent in by an agent we have in New York, stating that she had seen Natasha in the company of the man we think is Hawkeye and an old man in a wheelchair, leaving a bar. There appears to have been no signs of coercion, or else SHIELD has better techniques than we have given them credit for. Both times, the reports said that she was laughing and appeared to be having…fun. Your orders, sir?"

"What resources do we have available to us right now? We want her back."

The woman nodded. "There are a few warehouses in New Jersey that we can use; they are all owned by shell corporations of HYDRA or AIM. I have three specialists ready to leave, as well as ten security guards. I have people watching what we suspect is SHIELD's base in New York. The specialists have assured me that they will be able to successfully reprogram Natasha and retrieve all information about SHIELD and their operatives; she has been there long enough to have learned some of their secrets, especially if she is as close to Hawkeye as the reports say. However, they will also require the use of more serum, since their methods have the risk of being fatal. Natasha has never been subjected to this before, so they are unsure of how she will react to their drugs. Additional doses of the serum will prevent that. All that is required is your permission and we will be able to leave immediately."

"What are the risks of giving her more serum? It is a valuable resource, one that I do not want to waste."

"The only risks are if the specialists are unsuccessful, and we are forced to kill her. If they are successful, she will retain the benefits and there is the idea that she may stop aging completely. She would be practically immortal, save for grievous injuries." The woman started to sound excited. "Just think of it, sir, the Black Widow being the same person for all time. The legend would be amazing."

"I see." The man sat back, before leaning forward suddenly. "Approved."

* * *

Clint leaned back, draping his arm over Natasha's shoulder as he took a drink. "So, I'm taking the first vacation I was able to in _ages_, I'd saved up all my pennies from work, birthday gifts, Christmas presents, you name it, I saved it. Took me a year, because hey, I'm also trying to keep some food on the table, since Mom's bills were starting to get high. I'd discovered that the beach is a great place to go running first thing in the morning, as long as you can avoid people fishing, and was out there, listening to some music, enjoying the fact that the humidity hadn't quite kicked in yet, and I trip. Over what, I still don't know. But first thing I realize is that I'm all tangled up with somebody, who is rapidly cursing me out in some language that I don't understand. At least, the tone of her voice suggested that she was cursing, but she could've been telling me her mother's secret recipes. Get ourselves untangled, stand up, I go to apologize, and realize that she's totally hot. Ask her to dinner."

"I am still not quite sure why I agreed." Natasha shook her head with a smile. "I suspect that it was because I was bored, it would have given the gossips at work something to talk about, and he is rather cute."

"But anyways. Take her out to this little Italian place that the folks at my hotel recommended. Great food, nice and quiet, and what do I do? Spill wine all over her."

"My shirt was ruined. As was my skirt. I still do not understand just why I decided to keep saying yes to him, but," Natasha shrugged, "outside of a bit of clumsiness, I do enjoy being around Clint. I think it's because he makes me laugh."

"So," Wendy was halfway drunk already, Natasha could tell. "How long have you two been dating?"

"We first met last summer, talked a bit once my vacation was over, but really didn't decide to give it a serious go until last spring." Clint tilted his head to one side. "That time I was gone for about two weeks, remember? Couple reasons, one of 'em was to go help Nat out. So, what, about eight months now?"

"Maybe even closer to nine." Natasha nodded. "And for a man who can be so clumsy at times, he was very effective in helping me with my problem."

"What kinda problem?"

"She needed an out." Clint shrugged. "It just took a bit longer than expected. Still wondering just how I passed that semester."

"I was having some problems with my coworkers, and my boss was unable to help. Or unwilling; I suspect that he was part of the problem as well." Natasha smiled slightly. "So Clint came, did the muscle-bound idiot thing and managed to fix it all up. I was already in the process of leaving that one job, but so far my former coworkers have left me alone and the harassment did stop."

"I'm just hoping that it doesn't start up again." Clint's words made a shiver run down Natasha's spine. "I can only do so much; I'm about three classes away from actually graduating, they're all actually being offered next semester, and if I have to take time off to go play knight in shining armor for my girlfriend…the professors are all cool about my mom, but they'd probably be less cool for non-family."

"Um, hate to say this, but Danler is taking a sabbatical for the semester. Have you even _looked_ at the offerings for the spring today? All I know is that I can get my physical science stuff done, maybe a second seminar, but beyond that, it's not pretty." Wendy sounded mournful. "I'm so close, too. If Danler was here, then I'd figure out a way to go full-time and _finish_, but since it sounds like she isn't, talk about not cool."

"_What_?" Clint sighed. "And I had registered and everything already, too. Guess I need to figure out what's going on, then." He shook his head. "Parents are going to _flip_. They want to move back home, but I need to be able to go with them. An hour-long commute is one thing, one across several states is something completely different."

Natasha watched as Clint sadly told Wendy and her girlfriend about how his mother was getting tired of fighting, and her final wishes were to see her only child graduate college and then go and die in her own bed, in her own house, looking out over her own gardens surrounded by her own family and close friends. She couldn't help but be impressed; he was so detailed in his stories, and she wondered just how he did it. She jumped slightly when he nudged her. "Hmm?"

"Ready to go? Need to get Wendy and Trixie back to campus, and I think you're the most sober out of all of us." Clint dangled car keys in front of Natasha's face. With a glance around, he leaned closer and murmured in her ear, "you're thinking. Save it for later, 'kay? They're drunk, but not drunk enough to forget."

"You two are," Wendy giggled, "so _sweet_."

* * *

A knock on her door had Natasha looking up to see Clint entering, a hopeful look on his face. "So, they've started tearing stuff down upstairs. Mind if I crash in here tonight?" When she shook her head, he sighed in relief, reaching behind him and dragging in a bag. "Thanks. All I did was grab the rest of my stuff and say adios to my bed. Wasn't even all that comfortable, but yeah. It is nice, though, that they've finally decided to fix this place."

"Indeed." Natasha nodded, waiting for Clint to continue.

"So, nearly nine months in the illustrious keeping of SHIELD. How're you feeling about that?" Natasha decided that the only way to describe his grin would be cocky.

"Surprisingly happy." Natasha had spent several hours thinking about it. "I haven't been working nearly as hard as I am used to and have spent probably all but a few days with you, and you have made me question many things, but yes, I am happy." She turned off the television, patting the bed next to her. "Sit. Please wait for me to say that you can come in, or else I will throw a knife. How do you make your stories so complete?"

"Knives. That's something Coulson hasn't threatened yet, please don't tell him. I'll be polite now." Clint sat. "My school one is so complete because I've had so long to work on it. I've been in school now for five years, with at least another one to go. Damn annoying, because trying to balance school and life is difficult, but what SHIELD wants, SHIELD gets, and Fury said that I needed to go to college."

"Will I need to?" That was something that was worrying Natasha. "I don't think I could."

"Don't know." Clint leaned back against the wall, grabbing at the remote. "Put that on your list of things to ask Coulson whenever you see him next; he's planning on heading off to deal with some stuff in Idaho. He said that he was leaving in a few days." He suddenly sat up straight, turning to face Natasha. "That reminds me. Ever feel like celebrating Thanksgiving?"

"I am Russian. We never understood the idea behind getting together to cook a large bird and then watch American football all afternoon. So no."

"Want to? It's in a week, and I have a standing invitation with a family out west. Delores Smith's daughter. Classic crazy family everything; June goes all out and invites more people than can logically fit into her house, like every single nurse and doctor that works with her husband and their families. It's actually pretty fun, now that the kids are all old enough to realize that Uncle Clint isn't _really_ an uncle and so can't be held to the same expectations as Uncle Nick, who is a biker with a heart of gold, tattoos on tattoos, and near-limitless pockets from his job as a high-priced lawyer. She won't care that you just show up with me if we take everybody out to dinner Wednesday; we can flip a coin for the couch, or you can sleep on the floor in their daughter's room, if you think you can stand the pink."

Natasha couldn't hold back her laugh. "Uncle Clint? I seem to remember you using that phrase before, but didn't know that you had _experience_."

"Yep. Gotta spend my paycheck on something fun for others once in a while, since SHIELD really provides everything that I need. And as long as I remember that _all_ traditional weapons such as guns, knives, bows _and_ arrows, pepper spray, stun guns, anything with the word Stark on it or any relation to Stark Industries, and other things not yet mentioned or created stay locked in the car, it's perfectly relaxed. I also have found that showing up dressed as a civilian starts the visit off much smoother, and folks _here_ are less likely to argue if I figure out a way to keep on working while I'm _there_." Natasha quietly giggled while Clint told her the story of his first visit, and how he'd figured out how to manage an irate mother while he and Coulson prepared for an emergency, and then how two years later when something similar happened. "It's only happened twice, but I try to arrive on Wednesday and leave Friday just in case."

Natasha nodded. "I see. So you are allowed in the front door with presents and some clothing. I'll think about it."

"They let me have my phone, too. And my toothbrush." Clint kicked off his boots, stretching out in bed and grabbing at the blanket. "And before I was allowed to show off my nice, theoretically non-fatal toys, my pager." Rolling over, he glanced at Natasha. "We're a bit more technologically advanced here, but have just improved at hiding it these days. No phones in shoes, though, sorry about that."


	15. Chapter 15

Lazy Natasha.

* * *

She was just turning the corner when she felt a prick and sharp burn in her arm. Stumbling slightly, Natasha started to feel lightheaded, and leaned against the corner of the building. Not trying to be subtle, she grabbed at her cellphone and hit the button for Clint, before she felt hands grabbing at her and everything went dark.

"Barton," Clint mumbled into his phone, not entirely awake. When all he could hear was traffic, he sat up, realizing that Natasha wasn't there. A note on the desk told him that she'd left to go get food from the diner, and that she'd bring him something, and he started to get a sinking feeling in his chest. "Nat, I'm going to _kill_ you." He quickly changed, then called Coulson, leaving a message. "Coulson. Problem. Call me as soon as you get this, I'm tracking down Natasha."

Thankful that she hadn't wanted to take off her tracking bracelet yet, Clint booted up his computer, opening the program that would, hopefully, allow him to find where the bracelet and Natasha, were. He didn't let himself think about the idea that removing the bracelet would be easy, as long as they were willing to have a one-handed spy. If they even wanted her alive. It took longer than he'd hoped, but the phone rang just as the program beeped at him. "She's gone. Left me a note, saying she was going to the diner. Got a call from her on my cell, nothing there." He paused, hoping that Coulson wouldn't start yelling. "_Please_ don't yell at me for letting her out on her own, boss, I _know_ this wasn't of her own doing. She's made her desires and plans perfectly clear to me, even if a few idiots still think she's here just to spy on us and half a dozen guys want her in lockup until the end of time." Propping the phone on his shoulder, he started typing on his laptop. "Her bracelet's moving, heading west. Right now, it's still in Manhattan, but I'm not able to get an accurate fix because there's something that's screwing with the signal, and it's about to go out of range of my program. They might be heading for one of the tunnels."

"Clint." He heard Coulson moving around, probably throwing on whatever clothing was closest. "Don't stress. There's a good chance she hasn't been compromised yet. Start following as best you can, get onto the communications grid, and I'll get some other folks scrambled, as well as letting the area police departments know." Clint heard papers rustling. "Make sure you've a quarter or something small and throwable with you. She's going to need a smack between the eyes; I'll tell you more later."

* * *

Hawkeye stared at her from behind his drawn bow, fear and sadness battling with anger in his eyes. Natasha just looked at him steadily, the small corner of her mind that was busy being annoying beating against the walls that had been so carefully built over the past few days. "Hello, Hawkeye." she said coolly, hands loose at her sides. She wondered where her bracelets and belt were; she never went on a mission without them, and it was annoying that all she had were these civilian clothes. These _American_ civilian clothes, and that odd silver bracelet that she couldn't get off. It was pretty, so she didn't mind it that much. She wasn't surprised that they hadn't brought her a uniform however; Red Room thugs and scientists normally didn't think about the truly needful things. Not to mention, they couldn't even offer her a gun, so right now she just had her wits and physical fighting skills to fall back on. Luckily, all the medications that they'd been pumping her full of had worn off; they'd left her feeling a little slow. She couldn't understand, though, just why she was standing there instead of attacking or running, and why Hawkeye looked so upset – or how she could tell that he was upset. That annoying corner of her mind felt oddly triumphant.

"Widow," the man carefully nodded. "Tasha." He paused. "I'm sorry." He then released the arrow.

Gasping, Natasha was knocked off balance by what felt like a tree branch slamming through her thigh. Tears involuntarily filled her eyes as she fell awkwardly, landing on her elbow and feeling something stretch in her shoulder, and she couldn't hold back the scream as her injured leg hit the ground. Vision blurred, she watched as Hawkeye put one hand to his ear, shaking his head.

"Okay, pretty lady, you owe me a movie marathon after this. I'm thinking a crapload of sci-fi, just because I _know_ it pisses you off." Hawkeye had moved closer, one hand pointing a gun at her, the other tight on his bow. "Here goes nothing. Natasha. You're. Dead. Meat." He then firmly poked her between the eyes with the end of his bow.

"Huh." Clint tilted his head to the side as he watched Natasha apparently fall asleep. "Clear. Clean-up crews come in. Need Medical, _now_." He holstered his gun and slung his bow over his shoulder, reaching into a pocket for some zip ties. He tied her up, before covering the holes he'd made in her leg with gauze and duct tape. Feeling somebody come up behind him, he didn't turn around. "Coulson, when exactly were you going to tell us that the damned shrink had left even more stuff behind?" He stood up and gave Coulson a steady look.

"Probably never, because what you two didn't know meant that it couldn't be used against her, or you." Coulson crouched down, looking at how Clint had taped up Natasha's leg. "Medical, it's urgent," he radioed, before looking up at Clint. "And I'm thinking that after this, they'll be removed, if only for the safety of the entire psych department and myself."

"And another thing, it's time to deal with the Red Room. She's _ours_ now, they need to know that. Also, there have to be more people here; security thugs don't have the knowledge of how to do all this." Clint frowned. "And I know that she's going to want to help, too, when she wakes up." He refused to think about the fact that it might not be Natasha that woke up, if she even woke up. She was starting to look pale, and he resisted his desire to fidget nervously. "I just wish she'd woken me up, then we wouldn't even be in this situation."

"Maybe she didn't want to take the time, Clint. The elevators are getting pretty slow, and going from her room to yours and then to the ground floor would've taken a bit."

"Don't pull that crap with me, Coulson. I was in her room. We've been sleeping together for months, even before that Korea op, and you know it." Clint gave up trying to pretend that this was just another mission, and sat down, placing Natasha's head in his lap and gently smoothing back her hair. "Besides, they've started to tear everything down on the floor my room was on. It was easier to just sleep in hers."

"Then you'll have to ask her yourself when she wakes up." Coulson shook his head, raising his radio. "ETA on medical?"

"Sir? Medical team's on the way in, we found a room with a few guys locked in it, and a whole bunch of papers stashed in random corners." A SHIELD agent hurried up.

Coulson nodded, looking at Clint. "Do you want to stay here and help clean up, or go along for the ride?"

"I'll go. I'm no good right now anyways." Clint glanced up as the medical team entered. "Hey. Clean shot through her thigh, arrow's back there someplace." He waved behind him. "It was bleeding a lot, so I just slammed it all with gauze and wrapped it up with duct tape."

Coulson started to move off, then paused, leaning down and squeezing Clint's shoulder. "Clint. _Good job_. When Natasha wakes up, I'm sure she'll tell you the same."

"Good tape job, Agent Barton." The medic nodded, glancing at Natasha's leg. "Need you to back up a smidge though; we've got her now." Taping an oxygen mask to Natasha's face, he helped Clint shift her, before feeling at her neck. "Mike, need two lines, large as you can get, and we need to move. _Now_. I want blood hanging and in as soon as we get back to the jet."

* * *

Clint was slumped in a chair, resting his forehead against his bow, when Coulson entered Medical. "She coded on the way here but they got her back; they say I probably nicked something, triggered a small bleed. They were giving her blood and stuff all the way. Surgeon was just out here, says she coded again on the table, but she'll be okay with a bit of rest, provided she wakes up. She's in recovery right now, nobody's allowed in to visit until she is awake and they get her into another room. She also hurt her shoulder, probably when she fell, but they're saying that it'll be fine. He's wondering just what she's on, or just plain _is_, because he swore he thought that with the damage I did to her leg, she'd be a goner. Everybody else would've been."

Coulson sat down next to Clint. "Clint," he started.

"Don't, Coulson. Just...don't." Clint had his eyes shut. "I let myself get too attached, and this is the end result." He held out one hand. "I had to go and shoot my _partner_, and she might not even wake up, and I'd've been the one to kill her. I can't even convince myself that it would've been in the best interest of SHIELD, and I don't know why."

"Wasn't going to say that; that level of attachment obviously isn't a problem when it comes down to the wire. Natasha would agree, and I'm sure that she'll tell you that herself. You two are working out to be a good team." Coulson started searching his pockets, then gave up when he couldn't find anything for Clint to wipe the dried blood off with. "When was the last time you had something to eat? Or slept?"

"They forced me to have a granola bar and some juice. Said something about how they didn't want to deal with me passing out. Sleeping...day, I think. Maybe two. What time is it?" Clint had gone back to holding his bow with both hands like it was a lifeline. He didn't open his eyes. "You're not upset?"

"About what?" Coulson had glanced up to see several of the psych department starting to congregate. He shook his head, staring at them until they all moved off. Vultures, some of them. "Look at it this way, Clint, if you weren't so close to her, and hadn't been so determined to _find_ her, she'd've probably been back in Russia right now, singing all sorts of SHIELD secrets. It's been realized, at many different levels, that having her around is a good thing, and the fact that you two are able to work so well together is even better. You were right, when you first brought her in, she's a damned good asset to have. I took a look at some of the papers that were recovered from that warehouse – it looks like they really had to work at her, and they weren't completely sure that their reprogramming had actually stuck."

"Yeah?" Clint started to feel hopeful that he hadn't screwed up.

"Yes. And you might have saved her life, too, but we won't know for sure until we're done with the people that were there. Not all of them were security, so hopefully we'll be able to get something from them. But she was flawed, now, and they didn't like that, that much I did get from the papers. Tentative plan looks to have been to haul her back for questioning, then kill her if she continued to resist. It will take a few days to go through everything, so I can't say for certain what the end goal was."

"So, good thing that she technically died twice, then?"

"Clint, this attachment that you've got with her is almost the same thing as you've got with me, and you know it." Coulson was feeling slightly exasperated that he needed say this. "Hell of a lot less sex, for which I'm _incredibly_ grateful, I really don't know how she can put up with your snoring, but this sort of close bond that you two have is a good thing when you're in the field, and it'll just keep on getting stronger, as long as both of you keep on trusting each other. Give it a couple years, if that, you'll probably be able to predict her every move. I bet you two are already getting close – when was the last time you both were in one of those ridiculous gym brawls? I'm not counting the one after that last mission that you managed to screw up, because you were on opposite sides. I'm talking about the two of you against others, so stop beating yourself up."

"Huh." Clint sat up straighter, loosening his grip on his bow. "Never really saw it like that. And I don't snore. I'll let Tasha explain the rest of it to you, 'cause I'm kinda mad at her."

"Agents," a doctor in scrubs interrupted their conversation. "Good news is, she's awake and seems to be herself. Bad news is, she's already terrorized half of the nurses when coming out of anesthesia and I don't know if it's the drugs or her, so I want you, Agent Barton, to go in, talk with her, and then go and get cleaned the hell up, because you're stressing out everybody here even though we know that blood on you isn't yours. Neutral news is that as soon as you find out just what was running around in her blood, please let us know."

"She's always healed fast." Clint murmured, standing up and putting two and two together. "Something that the Red Room did, doc, so probably no fears for you or the staff. Bossman, there might be some information in those papers on that. Where is she?"

Coulson watched as Clint followed the surgeon, before turning to the man sitting on his other side. "Well, Jim?"

"Call me cold and callous, but this was a good thing for everybody, the two of them especially, Phil. Standard post-mission debrief for Clint, I'll let him get some sleep first and wave the 24-hour rule, as long as he gets in my office in 36, then you can deal with the fallout between the two. They'll probably deal with most of it themselves." The psychiatrist shrugged. "Natasha talks to me more than Clint does; she just drops by the chat every so often and ask questions about integrating here and life in general, and she says that they're usually able to clear up arguments in the gym. There are better ways, sure, but according to her she's got the edge in skill and speed, and he's got the weight and size advantage, so they're pretty well matched. It works for them, they don't keep score, or else I'd suggest putting a stop to it because there are safer ways of working out disagreements. From a psych standpoint, I'm positive that it's the Natasha from a week ago that's in there. She'll probably have some memory losses, but that's not to worry about. Had the surgeon let me in while they were waking her up from anesthesia; what he told Clint about not being sure that she'd wake up was a lie, simply because I wanted a chance to talk with her. Her coding on the table was true, though. They're just going to keep her for a few days, make sure that her leg is healing up correctly and she doesn't stress it too soon. They've classified this as some damn weird healing talent that she's got, but are incredibly curious as to the cause; guess everything was practically fixing itself in front of them as soon as they put the parts together. Biggest issues were the fact that she coded, actually, and not knowing who was in there. The blood loss wasn't quite as dramatic as it sounds, and may not have even been that much of an issue, but nobody told me much about that."

* * *

There was a nurse standing in the hallway by Natasha's door. "Clint. Before I'm allowing you in there, clean your damn hands and face." She handed Clint a damp towel. "And the restraints are for a reason, she's not allowed out of bed until we know that her leg isn't going to start bleeding again, and I'll bring her some tea _later_."

"Thanks, Meg." Clint wiped his face, then his hands, looking at the nurse. "Better?"

Frowning, the nurse shook her head. "No, not really, you still look like shit. Go see my current pain in the ass, then get a hot shower, at least 8 hours of sleep, and a decent meal, in that order. Only then will you be allowed back through this door, I don't care what _anybody_ else says. You've got ten minutes, then I'm going to chase you out or drug you up. Understand?"

"_Jeez_, you're pushy. Understood." Clint shook his head and opened the door. "Hey, Nat."

"Clinton Francis Barton, you tell them to let me out _right now_." Natasha was still feeling a little sleepy, but she was awake enough to realize that being tied down to the bed meant that she was potentially in trouble.

"Sorry, not allowed to do that, on pain of bad stuff happening to me." Clint felt a little better, seeing that Natasha was awake and using his full name. "So, um, sorry?"

"For what?" Natasha was testing the strength of the restraint that was around her right wrist. If she just pulled like _this_, maybe she'd be able to get her teeth at the buckle...discovering that she wasn't able to get any more movement, she slumped back, staring at Clint. "You look like crap, Clint."

"Yeah, well, shooting you, then discovering that your heart stopped, _twice_, once in front of me, tends to take it out of me just a little bit." Clint moved further into the room, leaning his bow against the wall by the door. Dropping into a chair, he looked at Natasha. "You don't look so good yourself."

"Yes, well, being shot in the leg, followed by being dead twice, and waking up tied down to a bed tends to take it out of me, too." Natasha pouted. "And I'm hungry, and thirsty, and they won't let me have anything to eat or drink."

Clint shook his head. "Message for you. Restraints are for your own good, you're not allowed out of bed until they're sure that you're not going to bleed out from your leg again, and Meg'll bring you something later. At least you don't have somebody sitting on you; they've done that to me a few times." He slumped back, running one hand through his hair. "_Jesus_, Nat, we thought you were gone for good. Six days to find you, because there was something in the building that was screwing with your bracelet's signal. General area, no problem, but then it was _finding_ the damn building that took so long."

"That long? Losing your touch, Barton." Natasha tried to cover how shaken she was feeling. By the way that Clint's eyes narrowed, she didn't think it worked. In one of those lightning-fast moves of his, he was suddenly standing next to her shoulder, eyes narrowed.

"Do you remember anything at all?"

Her senses screamed that levity would not go over well, so Natasha stayed honest. "I remember waking up tied down to a bed with a needle in my arm, followed by a fair amount of questioning and yelling, then waking up here, tied down to a bed, with a needle in my arm and a sore leg and shoulder. I don't really remember anything in between beyond flashes; I hope it comes back."

"Me too." Clint reached out and moved some hair that was about to fall into Natasha's eye. "There were, by all reports, a hell of a lot of papers scattered around, which might have been your doing; there were also some people that were brought back."

"Interesting. I'd like to see those papers, if Coulson lets me. Same with the interrogations. So, restraints?" Natasha widened her eyes and tried to look pitiful. "Can you please take them off? My nose itches."

"He can most certainly not." The nurse had entered the room and was standing at the foot of the bed. "Clint, time's up. Are you going to go peacefully and follow my instructions, or am I going to have to help you along?" She was tapping a syringe against her palm, eying Clint and Natasha.

Clint sighed. "Sorry, Nat. I'll be back later." Turning for the door, he paused. "Hey, is this enough to worry over?"

Natasha shook her head. "No. Because I'll be out of here as soon as I can get these things off." She shook her hand lightly. "And then we'll talk."

"Go." The nurse demanded, watching as Clint left the room. "Agent Romanoff. Here's how things are going to work. You are going to behave, follow my instructions, and cooperate with everybody. In return, I'll get you something to drink, and if you can keep that down, something to eat. If you don't, we've had practice with people who don't behave, and believe me, the consequences are not something that you'd appreciate. Being sat on would be the _least_ of your problems. Capiche?"

"Yes." Natasha nodded. "But can you please tell me just why I'm in restraints? I haven't done anything. I'm not Clint; I can actually follow orders, you know."

"The amount of cursing you were doing coming out of anesthesia suggested that you'd be just as bad as some others, who we regularly tie down to keep them in bed for more than a couple hours, and that statement you just made makes me even less willing to take 'em off. Plus, even though you showed some downright bizarre healing in surgery, you still managed to use up a good chunk of our blood in your type, they had to pump _that_ much into you over the past few hours, and we would really rather not see all of our hard work end up in a body bag because she tried to do too much too soon without us having had the chance to restock our supply." The nurse had moved closer and firmly tapped Natasha's head before pulling out a stethoscope. "So we're stuck with you for a little bit."

"You are a very odd nurse." Natasha observed. "All the other nurses I've met here are much more polite. Maybe if I promise to only leave this bed with supervision you can take them off?"

"I've been here longer than they have, have worked with more troublemakers than I care to remember, you're hanging around Barton, and I'll think about it. Now, tell me where it hurts."

* * *

Natasha managed a nap and a snack, had bartered enough to be released from the restraints, and had gotten the nurse to show her how to turn on the television and work the bed by the time Clint slouched back into the room. "I've decided, Clint, next time I get to shoot you." Watching him, she ignored the faint twinges and sat up. "I'll even let you choose where, but don't think you can get out of it by saying your foot or hand."

"Nothing vital, all I ask." Clint looked a little better, Natasha decided. "And you, by the way, owe me a movie marathon."

"My choice?" Natasha had found that looking small and pitiful worked on Clint, to a point, and she tried her hardest. She really didn't want to sit through all of the Star Wars movies again; five times was quite enough.

"Nope." Clint used the edge of the bed to tilt his chair back slightly. "Mine."

"No Star Wars. _Please_."

"Well, darn, because that's all that I brought." Clint smirked at her, pulling a video from his pocket. "Unless you want Star Trek?"

Natasha just glared at him. "I've resources Barton, and the nurses _like_ me. That had better be something we both enjoy."

"Of _course_ it is." Clint shook his head, moving to the TV. "I'm not stupid, you know. And if you're lucky, I might have even gotten Coulson to get some real food, not the crap they serve here." He moved the chair so it was against the side of the bed, sitting down and reaching out to grab Natasha's hand.

"No, you're just stubborn as hell." Natasha shook her head as the movie started. "Airplane. Nice choice." She pulled her hand free, moving over as best she could in the bed. "Here." She patted the covers next to her. "More comfortable."

Clint just shook his head, and carefully stretched out next to Natasha, who promptly leaned her head against his shoulder. Feeling the tension in his body, she gave him a look. "I'm not broken, Clint, and I really don't remember _anything_. Don't you _dare_ feel guilty. Doctor Rosenblum said that I'll be all good in a week, and I'm allowed to leave in two or three days. Tomorrow, the nurse said I can even wear real clothes and start walking around on my own." Reaching down, she picked up his arm and draped it over her shoulders. "There, much better. And see? I'm not screaming in pain, and I haven't had any medicine for a few hours now, so don't say that I'm all drugged up." Feeling him – finally – relax, Natasha settled in to watching the movie.

* * *

When Coulson entered the room, he smiled slightly at the sight. Natasha was half covered by a sleeping Clint, staring at the TV. She looked over at him and shrugged. "It could be worse, he could snore," she said in a low tone. "Thank you," she continued, "for not giving up."

Coulson moved the chair around to her side of the bed. "That wasn't an option. How are you feeling?"

"Good. I'd like to take a look at what was collected, and listen in on the interrogations." Natasha turned the television off. "Before you ask, I don't remember anything of importance, mostly just feelings of confusion and anger. If I think about it, more might come back. I'll tell you if it does."

Coulson nodded. "That isn't a problem. Now, I'm taking my turn to yell at you. Agent Romanoff, what the hell were you thinking, going out without backup?"

"That since Clint had had a nightmare, I'd be nice and get him some breakfast? That I was hungry? I wasn't aware that I wasn't allowed to leave without an escort, Agent Coulson." Natasha gave Coulson a pointed look. "I have no desire to return to my former life, and would really rather see the entire Red Room _burn_." She paused, as Clint shifted. "So do I need to forever go out with somebody there to watch my back? I will freely admit I was distracted, and I do also acknowledge that I have become a bit too relaxed, although I would like to ask whoever was security how they could have missed men lurking around outside. To that end, I am requesting a solo mission."

"I'll see what I can do. But you get to tell Clint." Coulson shook his head. "And might I add, it's very nice the way you two have meshed as a team. Would you answer a question for me?"

"I can try." Natasha felt a sudden stiffness in Clint, and realized that he'd woken up.

"SHIELD or Clint. You've the choice to protect the organization, or save your partner. Choose one."

"Ah." Natasha smiled. "One of those impossible questions with no right answer. Simple. Both." She leaned closer to Coulson. "Because I am the Black Widow. I can do the impossible. And, Agent Coulson," she sat back up. "Just because two people may be sleeping in the same bed, it doesn't mean they are having sex. We gave up on _that_ not long after Korea; things always seemed to interfere. For me, at least, sleeping in the same bed as Clint is an occasional comfort."

"She's got you there, Coulson." Clint sat up. "Bad, bossman, bad. Making assumptions. And I know about her wanting to go off on her own, I actually suggested it. After I yelled at her for deciding to be nice. I _still_ don't think I want you to try and be nice anymore, Tasha."

"Does that mean that we can try having angry argument sex?" Natasha didn't look at Coulson, hearing him choke. "Everything else we've tried has failed miserably. And I made you miss Thanksgiving."

Clint laughed. "Don't sweat it, we'll do Christmas or something. And please don't make Coulson blush, he'll just take it out on _me_. Not to mention, I know you, Nat, you're not _nearly_ like how you're acting. So stop it."

"Fine, then." Natasha sighed. "I'll just yell at all those poor people who keep on staring in the halls. Maybe that will be just as amusing as when I flirt with them."

"Sexual harassment training, check." Clint nodded. "Coulson, maybe _this_ time it'll be worth it to say that they stare, they risk getting smacked? I'm sure that people get tired of it sometimes. I do." He lightly nudged Natasha with his elbow. "The other reason I want to keep you, Nat. I get fewer hungry looks."


	16. Chapter 16

Happy birthday, Miss tricky Natasha. (Comic-verse year, random day)

* * *

"What?" Natasha's shriek had the entire room looking up, and Clint reaching out to grab at her. "I'm _what_?" She started to stand up, falling into Clint's lap when he yanked on her arm. She didn't try to be quiet as she started to curse him out. "Let me _go_."

"Guess I owe you a birthday present tomorrow, then?" Clint wrapped Natasha up in a hug, keeping her on his lap. "Although now I can't say that I'm older than you are. You're looking pretty damn good for somebody who's,"

"For somebody who is going to go and _tear_ apart the people who did this!"

"And I'm going to help. Nat, _calm_ _down_. Is this really so bad?" Clint sighed, reaching out to grab the papers that Natasha had been looking at. "Everybody else in here, clear out for ten minutes," he absentmindedly ordered. "So you're older than everybody thought, and have been doing this for longer than SHIELD's been around. So what is the problem?"

"My whole life is a lie." Natasha gave up trying to get free, and sagged slightly against Clint's chest. "Every last damn bit. And I don't remember anything but the past 15 years, and not even that very well."

"Tasha." Clint rested his head on Natasha's shoulder, carefully reading the papers. "So you were _technically_ born in 1928. So you're _technically_ turning 71 tomorrow. How much does that truly matter? You look like you're in your twenties. You act like you're in your twenties, going on 50. You _think_ that you're 22. You told me that you don't remember anything about when you were little, which means that quite a bit that you think about yourself was made up. So, _does it matter_?"

"Yes," Natasha hissed.

"Why." Clint's tone was mild, and he sounded like he wasn't paying full attention to the answer. Natasha didn't know if she was amused or annoyed by that.

"Because if they did _this_ to me, then what else did they do? Why lie to me? Why make me forget _everything_?"

"Why bother even thinking about it now? So they screwed you over, big time. That's life. Only thing to do now is to turn it around on them just as hard, and you've already started. Not only did they lose a valuable asset when you defected, they lost an asset that they'd had for _decades_. Right?"

"This," Natasha tried to grab at the paper, only to have Clint push it further away, "doesn't say that. All it gives is a birthday, and how much of this, this," she searched for the English word. "_stuff_ that they gave me. It doesn't even say what it is for."

"Tasha," Natasha was starting to get mad at how calm Clint was. "You told me once that you didn't care, that you aren't curious about your past. But now you're getting all worked up about finding out something simple. And, frankly, stupid."

Natasha elbowed Clint in the gut, standing up when he reflexively leaned back. "I want to know _why_."

"Okay. We can work with that." Clint stood up, tossing his arm around Natasha's shoulders. "So, let's go watch some interrogations, see if Coulson'll let you give some questions to that one lady that seemed to be in charge, then see if there might be anything in the works that'll get one or both of us into the Red Room and letting you find out more."

"You're too logical and reasonable." Natasha grumbled. "You just found out that I'm old enough to be your _grandmother_ and you're far to calm."

"Yep." Clint nodded. "Because guess what? You're technically old enough to be Coulson's mom, and Fury's…well, I'm not quite sure about him. Either his sister or his mother. Can't you see how _funny_ that is? And all those kids at school?"

"They've been hitting on somebody three times their age." Natasha couldn't hold back her giggle, suddenly seeing the humor.

Clint had pulled out his phone and was doing some math. "If you think about it, Nat, you could even be their _great_-grandmother. Well, some of the freshmen, at least."

Natasha hummed. "I'm still not happy. Although that is funny."

"Hey," Clint nudged Natasha in her side. "Can I use this? Because I can use this, and if it all works the way I think it will, it'll be fun, and you'll have fun, and then we can really settle down and work on planning ways to get in and blow up the Red Room."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Even if I didn't give you permission, you would anyways. So why are you asking?"

"Eh," Clint shrugged, "women get touchy about some things. Learned the hard way to never, _ever_ ask about ages, shoe sizes, clothing sizes, or to respond to the question 'does this make me look fat?' with anything but an immediate no. Even if it does."

"Oh?" Natasha let herself be distracted.

"Bobbi." Clint frowned slightly. "She wanted to be friends; I just wanted to be left alone, then a situation came up where the two of us _had_ to work together. We got the job done, but it wasn't pretty. She was still getting used to being asked to be more than just a scientist, and I was still learning how to play well with others that weren't on the teams or didn't have a military background. Coulson had to actually sit there and referee us a few times because I didn't know how to respond to her questions and she was rather…passionate about how some questions should be answered."

"What happened after that mission?"

"She decided that she liked the security of being a scientist better than the risks of being an agent. And that no, I wasn't a good friend to have, because I was a punk-ass who didn't pull my verbal punches and was more likely to find a tree or building to climb so that I didn't have to talk to her." He shook his head. "Scientists. And I hate getting yelled at. Bobbi was pretty good at yelling."

"Ah. I'm sorry." Natasha patted Clint's arm as the two entered Interrogation's monitoring room. "Please don't yell at me, either."

"Deal, and I thought we already agreed…hey, Coulson. We've got some questions for the crazy chick in room three."

"Oh?" Coulson glanced over at the two. "About?"

"Me." Natasha didn't give Clint a chance to respond. "We read some things."

Clint grinned. "You'd better be nice to her, sir. Respect your elders and all – ow! Dammit, Nat! You said I could have fun!"

"I lied," Natasha deadpanned. "You said it yourself, never discuss a lady's age. The only exceptions to that rule is if she brings it up or it is an emergency situation and even then you only tell the people who absolutely need to know." Letting go of Clint's ear, she turned to face Coulson. "I was born December 20, 1928, according to the papers. _Now_ you may have your fun, Clint, because I said it first." She nodded at the technicians. "And since there are more than the three of us in the room, I am sure that the rumors will travel."

Clint nodded, looking at Coulson. "Well?"

"Well, what. And Natasha, I've seen that particular paper, but thank you for confirming that my translation was correct." Coulson looked back at the monitors. "I don't suppose any memories have been triggered?"

"Just one of sitting in the snow, but I have sat in the snow a lot." Natasha shrugged. "Nothing important."

"Still, write everything down, please." Coulson requested. "Now, what did you want to ask her?"

Clint covered Natasha's mouth before she could respond. "Nat wants to know why, I want to know everything. Same old, Coulson."

Frowning, Coulson shook his head. "There's a problem, though. She's not talking, not even to give us her name or if she needs anything." He nodded at a screen. "That's all that she's doing."

Natasha stared at the screen. She didn't immediately recognize the woman, but there was something tickling in the back of her mind. It didn't seem like a threat, and she was able to ignore it, but still…"may I talk with her? Clint can come in as well, if there looks like there will be a problem." She ignored Clint's sudden tension. "I'm _sorry_, Clint, but I think that if I can talk with her, hear her voice, I might remember something. I almost am. It's right, right _here_," she waved one hand around her head, "but it's not _appearing_. And I trust you to do the right thing." She made a face. "Even if it means more time in Medical. And I think her name is Irena, or at least that is what I remember somebody looking like her being called."

"What about being dead?" Clint's voice was quiet. "Or being turned into a vegetable for the rest of your life? I don't like it, Nat. I won't be able to get away with shooting you in the leg again; they know I'm better than that. Here, I _will_ be expected to take the head shot."

"You won't." Natasha shook her head. "What I'm feeling is a vague memory, not an urge to turn around and start killing everyone." She paused, assessing the feeling. "Correction. Only a little urge, mostly directed at a few select people, so I will hope that you'll watch this for me, Agent Coulson." She pulled out the knife she'd tucked in her pants, then shook her head. "On second thought, I will be right back." She hurried out of the room, leaving Clint and Coulson watching the door.

"Nope, no clue, boss." Clint eventually said with a shrug. "Although she's really wanting to give a few Russians a good smack down or three, and Nat is the type of lady who could probably kill you with an earring. Did you _see_ the tapes of when she was showing how she'd've dealt with those guys in whatever little backwater country we were in last month?" He shuddered slightly. "Only way I really totally beat her in the gym is if I can get the jump on her or she makes a mistake. Sometimes I wonder if she _lets_ me win, and if that isn't a blow to my ego, I don't know what is."

Coulson didn't move. "Good, because I'm just as confused as you are. And yes, I saw those tapes. It's good for you. If you're wanting a birthday present for her, I would suggest offering to take her shopping for some clothes for missions, see if they can be altered to be something a little more mission-appropriate. The people that work with your arrows might be willing."

"Yeah," Clint nodded. "They're crazy enough to take on the challenge, especially if she'll let them play with her bracelets. And hey. Think you could change her tracker?"

"I really don't think that giving her a microchip will be necessary, Clint." Coulson turned back to the monitors. "After all, she's not _you_. I suspect the usual methods will work just fine."

"He's right, Clint." Natasha's voice had the two men turning around. "I'm not you, and I have no wish to be given a microchip like an animal. Although jewelry might be nice." She ignored Clint's response. "_Now_ I feel that I can go in there without killing her."

Coulson eyed what she was wearing. "In one of Clint's t-shirts and a pair of shorts?"

"It's not one of my shirts. Really, Coulson. Do you think I'd share my clothes?" Clint was shaking his head. "Nat, really?"

"I can't kill anybody easily without getting undressed, and I don't want to get undressed in front of them. And my gym locker was close." Natasha nodded at the techs. "Plus, by the time I'd get close enough, you'll have stopped me, anyways. And I think…I think that looking like this will help." Shaking her hair out of its bun and handing the elastic to Clint, she headed for the door. "Coming?"

Clint shook his head, following. "Only if you tell me why you're trying to look like a little girl."

"Innocence!" Natasha tossed over her shoulder. "Now hurry up, my feet are cold!"

Coulson chuckled under his breath, watching the screens. "Forget all of that, understand?" He didn't listen to the responses from the techs, choosing to turn up the volume to listen in on what Natasha and Clint were doing.

"Nat, wait." Clint reached out and grabbed Natasha's arm. "What are you doing?"

"I _don't know_." Natasha shook her head, frustrated. "I just think that _this_," she gestured at herself, "will be more effective than anything else, at least at first." She took a breath, letting it out slowly. "How can you describe shooting your bow?"

"Very clinically, but I think I see where you're coming from." Clint nodded, releasing Natasha's arm. "What do you want me to do?"

Natasha paused, one hand on the door. "I think," she started, then shook her head. "Just, be there. Don't be threatening, but don't try to fade into the background."

"Good cop, bad cop?" Clint asked, tilting his head to the side quizzically.

"I don't understand that, but no. Natasha who thinks that it's 1984 and she's seven because that just _feels_ right," Natasha pointed at herself, "and security guard." She pointed at Clint.

"I need a raise," Clint shook his head. "They don't pay me enough to do all this."

"They pay you more than I get, so don't complain." Natasha jabbed one finger into Clint's chest. "Now, you want to blow up a few buildings, I want to blow up a few buildings, and _she_," Natasha pointed at the door, "probably knows where a few good buildings are. I'm working without a script here, going off of feelings, so this is where you just have to trust me."

"She knows the phrase working without a script, but doesn't know the whole 'good cop, bad cop' routine and I was _so_ just played." Clint shook his head with a grin. "Okay. And then Coulson said I had to get you a birthday present."

"Bah." Natasha shook her head. "I haven't had one before, so don't make a fuss. Now, before my feet freeze off?"

"Why she wanted to go completely barefoot, I'll never understand," Clint shook his head, nodding at the guard standing beside the door. "Thanks, Pat."

Natasha stepped in front of Clint as the two entered the interrogation room and the door shut behind them. Sensing him moving to a corner, she sat down in a chair opposite the woman, curling her legs up and wrapping her arms around her knees. She spoke in Russian, pitching her voice slightly higher than normal. "Hello, Irena. It is Irena, yes? Because I am so very worried that I have forgotten your name and I know that I have seen you before on a tour at the Kremlin. I would not want to be rude, but it was so exciting that day, since we saw Chairman Chernenko himself!" Natasha didn't move but breathed a mental sigh of relief as the woman relaxed slightly.

"It is okay, dear. I understand that it was a very exciting day for all you girls, and we were never formally introduced. Yes, it is Irena. Now, can you tell me where I am? And how to get out of here? And do you know the date?"

With a small pout, Natasha shook her head. "It is still 1984? I have not been outside in so very long, and they always make me go around with somebody. I think this is a ship, though! That is exciting, yes?"

"Very," the woman had a thin smile, and she was staring at Clint. "Who is that?"

"That? Oh, Clint? He is my friend! He takes me to get lunch and snacks and has even improved my abilities to shoot a gun! Even if he only speaks _English_. The only Russian word he knows is no and he uses it all the time." Natasha tilted her head back, smiling at Clint. " And even though he makes it so that I cannot go outside or get near a window. Why is that?" She resumed staring across the table, lowering her voice. "I just want to go home now, because this is not very much fun. I do not even know how I got here, just falling asleep one night and then whoosh!" She waved her arms dramatically, "suddenly I'm looking like this and I'm here! I don't even remember where home is." Dropping her knees and leaning forward to rest her arms and chin on the table, Natasha widened her eyes. "Where is home? Clint says that if I am good, he will take me to a city and I know how to get away from him there. But after that, I do not know."

"If you go to any police officer in Russia, dear, they will be able to help you out. Just tell them that you are looking for Mama Irena and her baby chicks." The phrase suddenly triggered a memory in Natasha, and she had to work hard to not react. "What else can you tell me? And where did you get that pretty bracelet?"

"My bracelet? Clint gave it to me!" Natasha lied with a large smile. "I like it. And there is another man, he says to call him Mister Coulson." Natasha made a face, deliberately mispronouncing Coulson's name. "He scares me, and is always asking me questions. He is mean, too. Oh! And Meg! She is nice. She gives me candy sometimes, and makes sure that I get good bread with real butter for breakfast!" She paused, as if a sudden thought had hit her. "How did you get here? And why are you all tied up?"

"I was looking for you, Natasha. I was here to take you home." With a shake of her head, the woman continued, "but your friend Clint's friends found me first. They do not want to give you up, and want to hurt me."

Natasha sat up straight, twisting in her chair and giving Clint a narrow glare. He just raised his eyebrows in response. Turning back around, she pouted. "That is not very nice of him. I bet it was that mean Mister Coulson that did that. Clint is too nice to want to hurt anybody."

There was no response, and Natasha was worried that she'd gone too far. Then, "I'm sure. And what does this Mister Coulson look like?"

Natasha thought about how to best word her description. "He is _old_. And shorter than I thought he would be if he is one of our enemies but I am taller than I remember being? And he always wears a suit!"

Coulson dropped his head into one hand with a low groan, shaking it in resignation as Fury laughed beside him and the techs covered grins. "This makes the both of them, Director. If anybody here is old, it's Romanoff. Not me." With a sigh, he looked back at the screens. "Look at Clint. We may have to stop this soon, sir, because he's about to break whatever story the two of them worked out."

"Possibly." Fury nodded. "Although I'd love to know why Romanoff is dressed like _that_. Even though it appears to be effective."

"She said that she thought it would work, and that it would be harder for her to kill anybody. Clint's in there as backup, and, apparently, favorite babysitter."

"Remind me to give him a tip, then." Fury laughed again. "Because obviously he's well-suited for the role. Have you gotten anything from this conversation yet?"

"A first name, which may be fake, and a code phrase that it appears they teach the younger children in case they wander. Natasha may have more; she's been trying to regain lost memories."

Clint coughed, stepping forward. "Let's go, Miss Natasha. Snacktime, then maybe we can watch some TV."

Natasha sagged slightly in her seat, not turning around. "No!"

"Natasha. Go with Clint. If you are good, and behave yourself, and speak English to them, maybe you can come and see me again tomorrow."

"Oh, may I?" Natasha nodded excitedly. "And maybe you will tell me ways that we can go home?" She stood up, moving for the door. "Thank you, Irena!" Looking over at Clint, she nodded. "Yes. Bugs Bunny." As she followed him out and the door clicked shut behind the two, Natasha sagged against the wall. "I need paper and a map. And I can't believe that actually worked."

Clint nodded. "Was any of that good?"

"Lots." Natasha pushed off the wall, heading for the control room. "Mama Irena and her baby chicks are located in a small town about an hour away from Moscow. Security is heavy, but there are ways in. There is also a small office near the Kremlin, and a security vault in Novosibirsk that might have some good information." Ignoring the rest of the people in the room, she headed for a computer. "Apologies, Agent Coulson, but it was needed. And I remember some things that might be of interest, and I'll take a better look at those papers when I get a chance. I remember some locations that might be important, as well as a couple other things. And she didn't appear surprised that I was acting the way that I was, which suggests that whatever they did runs the risk of having that effect – if not immediately, then after a few days." She shook her head, bending over the keyboard and starting to type. "Which also suggests to me that this has happened before. If not to me, than to others."

"Do you know who she is?" Fury nodded at the screen.

"Yuliya Maximova Ivanova. 'Mama Irena,' although she really has nothing to do with training or recruitment; the name comes from the first woman in charge of the youngest of the girls. I may have been Mama Irena at one point in time, actually, but I'm not totally sure of that. Yuliya would be the equivalent to…not quite your second-in-command, Director Fury, but more like Agent Coulson. She gathers intelligence and either acts on it or gives it to the people who will make the decision of what to do." She didn't see the amused glances that the three men standing behind her were shooting at each other. "But I remember some locations that I previously didn't and will spend tonight thinking about some other flashes. And now," Natasha finished typing and turned around, "I'm going to go get dressed. And then Clint promised me a snack and an afternoon filled with watching television. If you call her anything, call her Irena."

"Which reminds me," Fury dug in his pocket, pulling out his wallet. "Your tip, Agent Barton, for doing such a good job babysitting 'Miss Natasha.'" Handing a folded bill to Clint, the director turned and left the room.

Moving over to Clint, Natasha plucked the folded bill out of his hand. "Thank you for the birthday present, Clint. It was very kind of you, and just what I wanted." She smiled sweetly at the room. "Actually, I'll meet you at the gym. That's what else I want for my birthday, another chance to crush your feelings of self-worth. And thank you for getting me those books on psychology, Agent Coulson, they have been most effective."

"Hey! That's twenty bucks!" Clint headed for the door, turning and pointing at Coulson. "Not funny. And I'm dragging her off to June's for Christmas. I've already checked with Delores and June; they say you can come if you want."

Coulson shook his head. "I'll pass. I don't want to even think about you with those four kids _and_ Natasha."

* * *

"Hello, Mama Irena!" Natasha chirped as she entered the room. "The mean Mister Coulson said that I was not allowed to visit you yesterday but Clint said I could see you today!"

"Hello, Natasha." The woman nodded. "I am glad to see that they have finally given you some real clothing to wear."

"Oh, this?" Natasha plucked at her shirt. "I was practicing my dancing the other day when Clint said they wanted me to come and see you." She lightly jumped in place. "I am remembering to practice my ballet and my gymnastics as much as they will let me, and I have found out the date! It is the twenty-first of December."

"Very good, dear," the woman said with a patronizing smile. "Now, you have been a bad girl, Natasha. You have been lying to me."

"It is a shame that you say that, 'Mama Irena,' since it is true. At least on one level." Natasha said coolly as she and Clint moved closer to the table. "Allow me to introduce you to my partner, Clint. You may know of him as Hawkeye." Lightly dropping into a chair, she leaned forward. "Yuliya, you have two options. One, continue on as you have, and hope that people don't forget about you actually being here – starvation is not a very enjoyable experience, as you should well know. Two, tell these people something. Anything. Even if it is just what you would like to eat; the cafeteria can do a very nice shchi, even if the smetana is the American version and tastes off. They have also perfected their pirozhki, after I gave them some instructions, and supposedly a version of it has become quite popular with some of the mechanics. It is not all hot dogs and hamburgers, although they have that too. Clint, remind me, it is pizza night tonight, is it not?"

"And a football game on the big screen." Clint nodded. He stood behind Natasha, arms crossed. "Giants-Redskins, there'll be fights over that one."

"Ah, very nice." Natasha nodded. "American football, Yuliya, must be seen to be appreciated. It is almost as fun as baseball, and much better than basketball and rugby." She gave a toothy smile. "Yes, Yuliya, you failed. And I _remember_," Natasha hissed as Yuliya paled. "I remember the training base outside of Moscow, I remember all sorts of locations that were very well hidden from the spies and satellites of SHIELD and that I was made to forget. What's more, I have _told_ them those locations. Even now men are moving in on some of them; I am keeping a couple for myself. It will be lovely to return some of those children to their families, don't you think? A little late for Christmas, unfortunately, but most certainly by, oh, International Women's Day. March, Clint. Just imagine, all those little girls and boys going home with flowers for their mothers. I would certainly pay quite a bit to make that happen." Natasha shook her head. "So, Yuliya, do you have anything to say?"

"Their families are all dead."

"Oh, I doubt that everybody is dead; the few times that I was sent out to bring in a child I only killed their parents. Sloppy, but what can one do when one is setting a house fire or causing an accident. They may still have more family out there, and if they don't..." Natasha shrugged. "SHIELD, _I,_ will make sure that they have places to go." She felt Clint's tension and sudden relaxation. "Now, Yuliya, do you have anything to say? Food, perhaps? You must be hungry." Affecting casual relaxation, she continued, "Clint and Coulson are getting tired of eating _good_ food as much as I'd like to, so I am looking for somebody who has the appropriate tastes to share it with." Natasha looked up at Clint with a small nod.

As Clint went to the door and knocked on it, Yuliya looked at Natasha. "It was all an act, wasn't it?"

Natasha didn't move. "Yuliya, I am not afraid to tell you this since you will never be able to return to the Red Room or any of her allies; I do not know what SHIELD does with their prisoners but you are either going to be locked away or dead. I was trying to get out for a long, long time. What you did to me has only allowed me to regain memories that were probably better off lost. Yes, it was an act. So tell me, how do you feel, knowing that you are talking with the woman who brought _you_ in?"

"Prison. Federal." Clint said shortly as he placed a tray down on the table. "Nat, this crap again?"

"This 'crap,' as you so delicately put it," Natasha tasted the soup, "is very relaxing. Comfort food. You two just don't understand what good comfort food really is." She pushed the bowl across the table, watching as Clint adjusted one of Yuliya's restraints. "Avoid the sour cream. Like I said, it's very American and only detracts from the taste of a halfway decent shchi." Calmly, she watched as the other woman eyed the bowl of soup and Natasha, before taking a taste herself.

"I have had better." Yuliya shrugged, but continued eating. "However, it is not bad, for American cooks."

"I think that the cooks here do the best that they can, and I made that." Natasha nodded. "I thank you." She continued watching as Yuliya ate. When the bowl was empty, she nodded and stood up. "Thank you, Yuliya, for your cooperation." Leaning forward, she muttered "and think on this. Clint is here for _your_ protection."

"Comfort foods," Clint was quickly checking the tray and tightening Yuliya's restraints, "are things like tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich, meatloaf, that boxed macaroni and cheese that kids can't get enough of. Not an incredibly sour cabbage soup."

"It was day-old shchi. The only way it could have been better was if there was actually some decent sour cream and fresh bread to go with it."

"Natasha," Yuliya called out, then muttered something that Natasha couldn't hear fully. When Natasha just looked at her quizzically and frowned, she frowned in response and tried a second phrase.

"I, Clint, am really starting to hate the Red Room even more right now, if that's even possible." Natasha said conversationally as she hopped up on the table, sitting cross-legged in front of Yuliya. Reaching out and gently grabbing the other woman's chin, Natasha leaned forward and met her eyes. "None of that will work, ever again. Clint has done me two favors now, favors that I will forever be repaying. First, he listened to me in Georgia, when I defected. Second, when he came to get me from that warehouse in New Jersey, he shot me. The medical staff say that I technically died. Twice. And when I woke up I was here." Shaking her head sadly, she sighed. "Give it up, Yuliya. You will never win. And good-bye, Yuliya, I will not be returning to see you ever again, unless it turns out that you have been lying. So do not lie."


	17. Chapter 17

Happy holidays.

* * *

As Clint turned the car off and reached behind him, he grinned at Natasha. "Brace yourself. And weapons in here."

"Brace myself? Against what?" Natasha reluctantly put her knives into the case Clint was holding out, watching as Clint did the same. "I can't keep one?"

"Nope. This is probably one of the _last_ places that people'll think to look for you, Nat, and if anything does happen, I know that the two of us can hold 'em off long enough to get out here and grab our weapons. Bigger thing for you to try to remember is that these are kids. So watch your reactions to surprises." Clint's tone shifted suddenly, from somber to amused. "And as for bracing yourself," he nodded at the house. "Four kids that run in age from seven to teenager." With a sigh, he reached for the door handle. "And if they know that somebody's coming, they tend to lie in wait. At least there isn't any snow this time," he muttered as he climbed out of the car. Carefully glancing around, he started to move towards the trunk.

Natasha watched as a foam projectile bounced off Clint's back and he jumped. With a small giggle, she looked around, spotting a figure trying to hide behind a tree.

"Hey! Remember the rules!" Clint called out. "Tommy, rule one when I arrive is?"

A voice piped up, "no attacking Uncle Clint until he's done putting stuff in the trunk."

"Rule two?"

"Remember rule one?"

"Exactly! And new rule! No attacking anybody with me!" Clint had moved around and pulled open Natasha's door. "Let's get inside and say hello. Normally when I'm here with anybody, I'm here with Coulson and he gives off that untouchable vibe, but you're new and so I don't want to risk anything."

"Interesting." Slinging her bag over her shoulder, Natasha followed Clint to the front door. As he raised his hand to the doorbell, it swung open.

"Uncle Clint! Mom's upstairs. MOM!" The yell had Natasha wincing slightly. "Who're you?"

"This is Natasha. Nat, this is Rick, one of the twins, or else he's Joe; I can never keep the two of them straight because they're identical. Know that Tommy's outside, where is everybody else?" Clint lightly pushed at Natasha's back, and she followed the unspoken instruction to move inside. "Nat's a friend of mine from work."

"Yeah, I'm Rick and hello Natasha can I take your bag you're both in the study." Rick rattled off, holding out one hand. "Dad's at work 'cause Mom said that the on-call scheduler was about to be _stupid_ again and she'd rather he worked today than tomorrow even though he'll spend all day with his nose in some paper as usual, Julia and Grandma are in the kitchen, and Joe's in the backyard."

"Neat." Clint nodded. "Nat, I'll show you where we're sleeping."

Rick followed Clint and Natasha. "Mister Coulson isn't coming?"

"Nah," Clint threw back over his shoulder. "He had some work that he couldn't put off. And Rick, gotta start to respect the door locks. All of you. Especially this year since Natasha hasn't had an American-style Christmas before, let alone the type that your mother puts on."

"Julia will be upset about that, Clint." A woman was coming down the stairs, looking curiously at Natasha. "Hello. I'm June. You must be Natasha? Are you sure that you're okay sharing a room with Clint? I can still put you in with Julia, since she's got bunk beds."

"Better this way, June." Clint nodded as he glanced at Natasha. "Like I told you on the phone; Nat's never really had this sort of experience before. We've also had a busy few days, so it'll just be easier for us to keep on working and not have to worry about waking anybody up." He took a second, longer look at Natasha as he opened a door. "Give us a couple minutes, then we'll be out to be sociable."

"This is…interesting." Natasha observed as she glanced around the room. "Do you use a cover story with them?"

"Kinda." Clint nodded. "Sorry for not telling you all this earlier. Tell them as much or as little about you as you'd like, but the base story for anybody other than the immediate family is a private security firm. Delores is June's mother, so they know that we're all government employees and that I'm security. You're security, too, by the way. Don't worry about the kids; they don't ask too many questions and are easily deflected. Dave, June's husband, is a cardiologist and takes privacy very seriously, so he generally doesn't pry too much. Be careful around June, though, because not only does she listen, she'll ask the tough questions and not let you out of answering." He shook his head with a small smile. "I'm still trying to get her to stop mothering me. But not always, because sometimes you just need a hug and a home-cooked meal, yeah?" A banging on the door had Clint glancing over with a frown. "And this is why I also try to bring something to block the door that the kids can't pick or break through. Coulson's been a bad influence; he's taught them a few tricks."

"Agent Coulson?" Natasha couldn't believe that Coulson would teach children how to break into rooms.

"Yeah, it's become a kinda tradition to wake up the uncles if they're around. And this is someplace that Coulson can have fun. And, um," Clint scratched the back of his neck. "It's also kinda a way for him to get back at me for some of the things that I pull without having to be official or completely ruin his SHIELD reputation."

"Ah." Natasha nodded. "Have you ever thought about not playing pranks?" She glanced at the door when a small voice started coming through.

"Nah." Clint turned back to the door, pulling it open. "That'd be _boring_." Natasha watched as a small body barreled into him and he stumbled slightly. "Heya, Julia. Got somebody for you to meet. This is Natasha." He gently turned the child around and knelt next to her. "Nat, this is Julia."

Natasha was startled by the intensity of the gaze that she was being given. "Hello," was all that she said. "It is nice to meet you."

"You're pretty." Julia nodded firmly. "Where did you come from?"

"Julia, be nice," Natasha glanced up, seeing June standing in the doorway. "Remember what I said about appropriate things to say to the guests?"

"But mo-om, she's not a guest, she's with Uncle Clint!" The child's logic made Natasha smile.

"I do not live here, so yes, I am a guest." Natasha went to sit on the couch. "And I am from Russia." She didn't expect to see Julia's eyes widen, or to suddenly have a child sitting on the couch next to her.

"Really? Because we just talked about Europe in Social Studies and Mrs. White said that people from Europe celebrate Christmas differently than we do and how do you celebrate Christmas in Russia?"

Wide-eyed, Natasha glanced at Clint. He just nodded. "Julia, you can ask her questions later, why don't we give her a tour and go say hi to your grandma? Is your Uncle Nick here yet?"

"No. He's not going to be here until late. Dave says that he'll meet us at the restaurant; he's just about done at the hospital." June shook her head. "Can I have a minute to talk with Natasha? Just the two of us?" When Natasha nodded, Clint ushered Julia out.

Natasha smiled faintly as June sat down next to her. "Let me guess, hurt Clint – or anybody in your family – you'll hurt me, yes?" She nodded. "I have gotten that from a few people already."

"Oh no," June shook her head. "I just wanted to really make sure that you're okay sleeping in here, and if there was anything that I could do for you. Clint had mentioned that the two of you have had a bit of a rough month, which is why you missed Thanksgiving."

"Ah." Natasha turned slightly to better look at the other woman. "Everything will be fine, thank you for asking. We just have quite a bit of work to do, and so will be staying up late. I don't want to disturb anybody any more than is necessary."

"Good!" June lightly slapped Natasha's knee. "Now let's go make sure that Clint isn't inciting my children to riot; I'd hate to have to take away his Christmas present."

"Would he do that?" Natasha followed June.

"One year they had a snowball fight that involved food coloring, although I don't know how much of that was him, how much of it was Nick, and how much of it was the kids." June laughed. "He's learned since, but Julia has him wrapped around her finger. Always has." She glanced at the door with a sly smile. "I'll pull out the pictures after dinner."

* * *

Natasha prided herself on her ability to adapt to any situation, but very little had prepared her for dinner. Feeling slightly shell-shocked, she automatically followed Clint into what appeared to be a television room and sat next to him, leaning against his shoulder. "Sorry," he whispered. "Didn't expect them to choose Chuck E. Cheese's, or that it'd be so crowded, seeing as how it's Christmas Eve and all." He carefully pulled a piece of French fry from Natasha's hair. "Or for a food fight to break out. Although you are supposed to duck and cover if you're not participating. Haven't you ever been in a food fight before?"

"Never." Natasha shook her head. "And I don't think I'd like to do that again, not without adequate preparation. I have never even heard of a restaurant like that before tonight."

"They're really for the kids, although there's another chain that's designed more for adults." Clint nodded, lightly pushing Natasha upright. "Better speak up now if you don't want to watch a cartoon once the kids finish getting changed."

Natasha just slumped back against Clint with a shake of her head. "I don't care."

"C'mon, Nat." Clint pushed her up again. "Act your age." He paused. "Whichever one you want to be."

"Like you do?" Natasha sighed and stretched slightly. "But okay." She nodded. "I want the bear."

"Hey, I won that thing fair and square." Clint objected, turning on the couch to face her. "Not my fault that you lost the shoot-out."

"You have an unfair advantage over her, Clint." Delores sat down with a careful glance around. "She doesn't have your skills."

"Still, I won it." Clint crossed his arms and shook his head. "I'm keeping it."

"It's pink." Delores pointed out dryly. "With hearts on it."

"Don't care. It's still mine."

"But," Natasha widened her eyes, feeling back on level ground. "I've never had one before?"

"She's got you there, Clint." Delores chuckled. "And I think she should have it. Unless you want to give it to my granddaughter, who has quite enough in the way of stuffed animals?"

"She _did_ pick it out," Clint started, before tossing the bear at Natasha. "Here, Nat. Hope you like pink. And hearts."

Catching the toy, Natasha hugged it to her chest with a small smile. She really hadn't wanted it, but wasn't about to turn it down. "Incidentally, Delores, I have many skills of my own that Clint doesn't." She shifted down to the opposite end of the couch as people started to pile into the room and one of the twins – she couldn't tell which one – started pulling out videos.

Julia bounced onto the couch and snuggled up next to Clint before looking over at Natasha. "Do you like it? Uncle Clint said that he wanted to get one that was just right!" In a loud whisper, she continued, "he was going to get you a _yellow_ one. We all know that Uncle Clint isn't allowed the yellow markers because he can't stay in the lines so why would a yellow bear be any different?"

Natasha ignored Clint's groan and nodded. "Yes, I do. It's very nice. Thank you for helping Clint pick it out."

"Mom, no." One of the twins spoke up as June sat down on the couch next to Natasha holding a photo album. "Not the baby pictures."

"Don't worry, dear," Delores smiled. "Your mother doesn't want to show you off. We're just being mean to Clint, as usual."

"Of course." Clint sighed. "I don't suppose I can have a visit where it _doesn't_ end up embarrass Clint time?"

"Never. It's tradition. So, Natasha, this is when we first met Clint." June had opened the album and was pointing at a picture with a shake of her head. "Phil picked the lock on the door for us, and we decided to have a little fun." Natasha smiled, seeing a picture of Clint asleep on a couch with a small child on his chest. "Julia – all the kids, really – seemed to fixate on him as soon as they met him. We never really did figure out why."

"Because he's _cool_, Mom. In a different way than Uncle Nick. 'Cause Uncle Clint can shoot guns and throw knives and probably knows more than _James Bond_."

"Exactly." Clint sounded triumphant as the doorbell rang. "I'm just that awesome. And now," he stood up, tossing a giggling Julia over his shoulder, "_we_ are going to go answer the door, since that's probably Nick and it's much easier to have my name dragged through the mud when I'm not around to hear it."

"Quick, June," Delores took Clint's spot on the couch. "Show her the pictures from three years ago before he gets back."

"It's become a tradition," June started as she flipped pages, "to have at least one of the kids go and help wake Clint up, although I think that he just plays along these days. There have been times that somebody's quite clearly been up and about in the kitchen before the rest of us have even woken up."

"We normally wake up early, yes." Natasha nodded, catching glimpses of family vacations and celebrations. "7 AM is considered late."

"Ah, here it is. And kids, don't take that as a challenge. That's not a request, either." June nodded as Clint and Julia returned, followed by another man. "Julia had found some old lipstick of mine, and you see the end result."

"I am very sorry, Clint," Natasha didn't bother holding back her laughter. "But that is very much not your shade." Her eyes quickly flicked over the new person in the room, assessing his threat potential. Low, she decided to herself, for all that he looked like some of the Russian mobsters that she'd encountered. "Hello," she said. Standing up and holding out her hand, she headed towards the new man. "I'm Natasha." She made herself stay relaxed as he grabbed it and pulled her into a hug.

"Nick. June's brother." Releasing her, Nick glanced over at Clint. "She your latest keeper?"

Clint rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Don't even know why I bother sometimes," he muttered, tossing an arm over Natasha's shoulders and steering her out of the room. "Work called, we'll be right back!"

Natasha held her questions until Clint had locked the door to their room. "What is it?" She watched as Clint dug through his bag, pulling out his laptop and sliding a small memory card from his phone into it. "Clint?"

"Some papers that Coulson wanted to you see now, instead of when we get back. And he apologizes that he didn't get everything e-mailed faster, but they had to finish scanning it all in, not that you'd've been able to read much in the restaurant." Clint was busy typing. "I don't know if it's a translation issue or something a bit more personal, but there was some success on the Kremlin mission." He looked up at her. "Here. No yelling."

Natasha sat down, looking at the computer screen. The documents were hand-written, and she frowned slightly. "These are very old."

"Yeah." Clint nodded. "Keep reading. Coulson sent along his analysis of these, but he really does want your take." He shifted to sit on the back of the couch behind Natasha and rested his hands on her shoulders.

Natasha absentmindedly nodded. "The first one…nothing important. It is a page from what appears to be a training manual. It is a list of rules. The second page is a list of places and how to get to them. The third is," she froze, hands convulsively tightening on the laptop. "Me?" She was suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

"That's what Coulson thinks." Clint didn't move. "He also said to tell you that _he_ took any piece of paper with your birthday on it, so fewer people would hopefully see this."

Natasha gently touched the screen over a picture of a young girl. "I must remember to thank him when we return, then. I did not think that he would do that."

"He wants to keep people happy, Tasha. It's just part of who he is, even if it doesn't seem it sometimes." Clint slid down to sit next to Natasha. "I actually snuck in one night and added it to his job description; he has to keep us crazy folks happy. Fury wouldn't let him change it back once it was discovered." Wrapping one arm around her, he continued, "although he uses a different definition of 'happy' than I might like sometimes. He's gotten really good at balancing it all over the past few years." Clint's phone rang, and he sighed as he pulled it out. "Barton. Yeah, she's looking at it all right now." He suddenly stood up and Natasha watched as he walked across the room to look out the window. Frowning, he snapped, "_Fine_. But _you're_ chickening out, sir. We'll be back tomorrow night. As planned."

"What was that?" Natasha was trying to shove her shock at the papers into the corner of her mind reserved for unexpected discoveries. It was harder than normal.

"Coulson." Clint reached out and grabbed the laptop, shutting it. "And he says no more looking at this; we have to wait." He shook his head. "Which I totally disagree with, because I know that you'll control yourself and let this lovely family who is completely oblivious to the workings of our world enjoy their Christmas, right?"

"But," Natasha started, one hand reaching out for the laptop. "Why?"

"He retranslated some stuff and says that considering how upset you got about finding out your birthday, you'd probably be even more upset about finding more out. Did you see anything?" Clint gave Natasha a lopsided grin. "Or were you too busy looking at pictures?"

"No." Natasha shook her head with a small sigh. "I was distracted by the pictures."

"So," Clint took a careful look at her. "Feel up to being social again?"

"I can certainly fake it." Natasha nodded, putting a smile on her face. She didn't argue, though, when Clint dragged her down onto the couch next to him and kept his arm over her shoulders during the movie and told Julia that she had to share.

* * *

Natasha was up before Clint the next morning. Quickly throwing on some clothes, she slipped out of their room and headed for the kitchen. Passing the living room, she paused, getting a good look at how it had all changed overnight.

"June really likes to go all out." Nick's voice made Natasha slowly turn around, reluctant to stop looking at something so homely. "This, Thanksgiving, Halloween, and Easter are her big holidays; you should see the boxes of stuff she's got stashed away." He held out a mug. "Coffee?"

"No, thank you." Natasha shook her head. "Do you happen to know if there is any tea here?"

"There should be." Nick led the way into the kitchen with a yawn. "Sorry. I haven't actually gotten to bed yet; I'm working on some stuff and had a sudden idea last night." He gestured at the table. "Let me grab you that tea. Have a seat." Natasha watched as he put a mug of water in the microwave and started a pot of coffee.

It wasn't the best tea she'd had, but it was better than nothing. "So," Natasha furiously thought about a conversation topic. "Clint said that you were a lawyer?"

"Yeah." Nick dropped into a chair. "Corporate law. Right now I'm working as an outside consultant with Stark Industries." He shook his head. "A more convoluted place I've never seen; I actually had to hire my own lawyers to negotiate a contract, which was a first for me."

"Interesting." Natasha sipped her tea, starting to feel awake.

"Not really." Nick shook his head. "Most people find it incredibly boring. Hell, _I_ find it boring sometimes. How'd you end up working with Clint?"

Natasha nodded. "He…recruited me, for a lack of a better word." Seeing the skeptical look Nick was giving her, she calmly tilted her head to one side. "That is surprising?"

"You don't look like a security guard. You look more like my receptionist, who can barely lift a 20-pound box."

"And you don't look like a lawyer. You look like a thug who cannot put two words together." Natasha replied. "Appearances can be deceiving, no?"

"Touché." Nick nodded. "You know, I've always wondered how Clint and Phil, and now you, are so good at the quick comebacks. Don't security guards not have to worry about that sort of thing?"

"Mmm." Natasha hummed, taking a sip of her tea to avoid answering. A noise had her looking over at the kitchen door. "Good morning."

"Is Uncle Clint asleep?" Two children looked at Natasha and Nick hopefully.

An idea hit Natasha, and she nodded. "Would you like to go check?" Clint had said that Coulson participated in that little tradition, and since Coulson wasn't present, Natasha would gladly step in. Pouring a cup of coffee and adding some sugar, Natasha smiled. "Come." She followed the kids down the hall, watching as Julia quietly opened the door. Clint was clearly awake, and Natasha didn't bother hiding her smile as Julia and Tommy ran inside.

"Morning," Clint didn't move. "Nat, you really had to?"

"Why break with tradition?" Natasha sipped her tea and made a face. It had gone cold. "I have coffee for you."

"Tasha, you are the _best_ partner I've ever had." Clint didn't move, although Natasha couldn't tell if it was because he now had two kids sitting on him or if it was because he was planning something. "So, Santa come?"

Apparently that was some sort of signal because Natasha had to quickly move out of the way as Julia and Tommy both squealed and ran out of the room. "I am the only partner you've ever had, Clint. At least the only one who has bothered to learn anything about you."

Clint smirked, eyes still shut. "That, and you're my bestest friend _ever_."

"You sound like a girl." Natasha held out the mug as she sat on the floor next to Clint. "Here."

Sitting up, Clint shook his head. "Thanks, I think." Taking a drink of the coffee, he lightly bumped Natasha's shoulder. "Have I said that I'm glad you're here? Nobody's brought me coffee before, they've just released the kids and laughed."

Grabbing the mug Natasha took a sip. She handed it back, wrinkling her nose. "No. You will have to do so more in the future."

"You don't like coffee, so why even try it?"

"I need caffeine." Natasha didn't try to cover her yawn. "And my tea is cold."

A cough from the door had the two of them looking up. "Not to interrupt your little love-fest, but June's saying that if you two don't appear in the next five minutes she'll give your stockings to the kids." Nick shook his head. "And breakfast is ready."

* * *

Natasha didn't want to admit it, but she was glad when they were finally back in the car and driving away that afternoon. "That was…interesting."

"And you don't want to go through that again?" Clint nodded. "Yeah, they can be a little overwhelming at times. But don't be surprised if you get invited back; that's just how June works and the first time is always the hardest." Stopping at a red light, he twisted around and pulled a box from the backseat. "Here. Stuff wasn't safe enough to give you there without some convoluted explanation, but Coulson said to give it to you before we got back to the Helicarrier."

Curiously, Natasha opened the box and found a small key, along with some jewelry. "Jewelry and a key?"

"Key is because the bosses have decided that you can take the bracelet off, and R and D finished making more trackers in jewelry." Clint gave Natasha a small smile. "Your skill set is very much focused on going undercover, and since you said that you didn't want one implanted," he shrugged. "Let us be paranoid, okay?"

"You are always paranoid, Clint. But thank you." Natasha had forgotten about her bracelet, she'd grown that accustomed to wearing it. Spinning it around, she looked for the lock. "Although I might need your help with unlocking this."

"Of course." Clint nodded. "And Coulson also said that there's a mission for you. How do you feel about visiting Germany?"

"It depends on what I need to do." Natasha shrugged. "As long as it doesn't interfere with us going to Russia."

"Shouldn't. And speaking of all that, once we get in the air we can take a look at those papers."


	18. Chapter 18

Poor Natasha.

* * *

"So, Natasha. This is everything that's been brought back so far." Coulson opened a door, indicating that Natasha should enter. "I've had pulled aside everything with your name or your birthday. You get to go through it all, summarize it, and get that information to me. I've also got information for an undercover mission in Germany for you. And on that note, how's your German?"

"It could probably be better." Natasha glanced around the room, seeing stacks of papers and various dark-suited SHIELD agents. "But I can certainly act as a tourist."

Coulson frowned. "Maybe. I'll get you some of our language tapes." Turning to leave, he paused. "And, Natasha? Be prepared for some shocks this time. I'll be back later."

With a nod, Natasha headed to where she could see a stack of papers and files with her name written on a Post-It stuck to the top. She'd only been able to see the one page which had little more than pictures and a name, and her curiosity had only increased over the past few days. Sitting down, she grabbed the top paper, giving it a fast look, then putting it to the side. The next paper was the same. "Lists, lists, and more lists," she murmured to herself. "Lists of food, of supplies…" reaching the first folder, she opened it and stopped. Drawing it closer, she slowly read the top page, trying to absorb everything. A laugh suddenly made her remember where she was, and Natasha firmly closed the folder, starting a second pile.

By the time Coulson returned, she'd sorted through the entire stack. "These are day-to-day operations and communications. These are other Red Room operatives. And these," Natasha's hand hovered over the smallest pile, "these are mine. I haven't read much; I wanted to sort through it all first."

"That isn't a problem; you focus on your own files and other people can sift through the rest of it." Coulson glanced at his watch. "Take your time, but you've got at most two weeks. Let's go to my office and you can look at the mission brief."

* * *

"I've decided that you all really were nuts with this school thing, because this semester is going to _suck_. Just got back from talking with my advisor, and basically all I can take are things that I don't need or things that I don't want. He's _saying_ that the art classes really aren't that bad, but he said that about that one Gender Studies course and we both know how _that_ turned out. I have to take a look through the course catalog first, though, and compare what's still got space with what's being offered." Clint lightly dropped into a chair next to Natasha in Coulson's office. "Hey Nat. Find anything?"

"Lots," Natasha muttered. "I haven't looked at it yet, though." Busy looking through the mission briefing, she didn't resist when Clint reached over and grabbed her wrist.

"Are you feeling okay?" Clint shifted his hand from her wrist to her forehead. "Nope, no fever…Coulson?"

"Unlike some people, Natasha might know how to prioritize. And I've heard that statement repeatedly over the past five years, Clint; you need a new line. You were the one who went along with it."

"You and Fury didn't _let_ me say no." Clint lightly poked Natasha's shoulder. "Okay, Nat. Knowing you, you haven't had anything to eat since breakfast, you've got some time until that has to be pulled off, and I'd like to talk to somebody that can actually use words that I understand."

Closing the file, Natasha added it to her pile and stood up. "You're right. And maybe after we eat you can help me start to go through this?"

"Sure. But let's grab something portable, so we can just haul it back to your room and have ourselves a working dinner."

They were halfway to the mess hall before Clint grabbed Natasha's arm and pulled her to the side of the corridor. "Okay, start talking."

"I don't know if I want to find anything out." Natasha immediately felt relieved. Hugging the files to her chest, she started walking again. "Part of me wants to read and memorize everything that I possibly can, and part of me just wants to throw it all over the side of the ship."

"Huh." Clint nodded. "I can't totally understand where you're coming from, for obvious reasons, but I think you _should_ look. Few reasons for that." He started holding up fingers. "One, it's your history. Two, there might be things in there that could affect you one day, and it's always a good thing to know that sort of thing. Three, you don't look like you were born in the twenties, and I know that a few people would like to know why, ranging from me, to Coulson, to Medical."

"Then _you_ can look through it all and tell them." Natasha glared at the floor. She didn't say another word until the two of them had collected food and Clint was trying to balance two meals on a single tray. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

"You're stressed. I get that." Clint nodded. "But did you really have to get soup?"

"Yes." Natasha was firm. "Because I wanted to make it difficult for you, since you're right. I need to know, even if I don't really want to know." Carefully tucking the files under one arm, she reached out and picked up the silverware from the tray, quickly readjusting what was left to be better balanced. "There. And I'm not very hungry, either."

Rolling his eyes, Clint sighed. "Why is it that everybody is out to make my life difficult? Everybody, I tell you."

"No, I'm out to simply keep your ego in check." Natasha corrected.

"Nope." Clint clearly enunciated the word. "_Everybody_. Somebody must've decided that I'm the world's whipping boy, and then they sent you in to make sure that I'm kept repressed."

"Ah, poor Clint. What would you like me to do, then? Hand feed you peeled grapes while you lie on the beach?" Natasha teased. Opening the door to her quarters, she mockingly bowed him in. "Inside, Barton, because I want to steal your dessert."

"You get a bite. If you wanted chocolate cake, then you should've gotten your own slice." Clint carefully set the tray down on Natasha's desk. "Don't make me…oh, _c'mon_, Nat. That's the best part!"

"Half, then." Natasha smiled, suddenly starting to feel better. The bit of icing she'd swiped helped. "And you were in line in front of me and that was the last piece. I asked."

Natasha slept poorly that night, waking several times from incredibly vivid dreams. Roughly rubbing her face with her hands, she gave up and rolled out of bed. Turning on the light, she moved to her desk to continue reviewing and summarizing the various files. When a hand reached over her shoulder and closed the file she was looking at, she spun around furiously. "What! Don't you knock?"

"Not when it's this late, you aren't answering your phone, and you don't hear my knocking." Clint's face was a mixture of annoyance and concern. "You missed a meeting, too, and none of that is like you." Taking a careful look at Natasha, he continued, "Tasha, did you get any sleep last night?"

"Not really," Natasha admitted. "I had too many odd dreams."

"Okay then." Clint nodded, then suddenly pulled Natasha's chair back and grabbed her arm. "Up, you." Dragging her to her wardrobe, he pulled out a set of sweats and then continued to the bathroom and turned on the shower. "Get in." At Natasha's glare, he just looked at her. "I've seen it all before and will probably see it all again, and I'm going to make you get some sleep. You look like crap, to be honest, and if you were having trouble sleeping, why didn't you come get me? So you're either going to get in on your own, or I will toss you in, clothes and all."

As steam filled the room, Natasha suddenly felt too tired to argue. "Because I don't want you to see me as being needy or weak." Stripping down, she stepped under the water, feeling the heat quickly penetrate.

"Not totally positive that you'll remember this conversation, but seriously, Nat. You are one of _the_ most independent and strong women that I've ever met. Banging on my door and saying that you need a distraction because you're fighting insomnia isn't being needy or weak, it's being honest with yourself and with me." Clint held up one hand as he leaned against the wall, staring at the ceiling. "Not to mention, keeping yourself ready to go as needed. Medical is also there to help, but I'm always one for trying the classics first. Hot shower, warm milk, boring book, talking it out…"

"Fine," Natasha sighed as she turned off the water and accepted the towel Clint handed her. Drying off and quickly getting dressed, she moved to stand in front of him. "And now? Since you're obviously going to mother me?"

"Now," Clint lightly directed Natasha to her bed. "Now, you are going to lie down – _under_ the covers, Nat, they're there for a reason – and my book and I are going to join you. The plan was that in a couple hours, Coulson was going to call me, and we were going to go and get some food and then bring the summaries of all that," he waved at the desk, "to his office and have that meeting that was scheduled for this morning."

"Oh." Natasha obeyed, feeling Clint slide in next to her. Rolling over, she looked up at him. "What time is it?"

"Almost six. Go to sleep, Nat. I'm changing the meeting to tomorrow." Clint shifted slightly. As she fell asleep, she heard him dial a number on his phone and start to have a quiet conversation.

* * *

"Natalia Romanova. Born December 20, 1928 in Stalingrad. Parents apparently died in 1935 at which time Natalia was taken in by a highly-classified section of the NKVD that was affectionately called the Red Room, a designation which stuck when it became its own entity and only loosely associated with the KGB. Official reports have her in Moscow during World War Two, but that is not guaranteed; I had a strange dream last night about being in Germany at that time." Natasha shook her head, trying to stay objective and appear awake. Even with Clint there, she'd still not gotten enough sleep. "Natalia Romanova apparently suffered severe injuries in a training accident in the late 1950s, and disappeared from the records that have been retrieved." Putting several folders aside, she picked up a second pile. "No information until 1977, when Natasha Romanoff was entered into the records as having been 'born.' Natasha – I – quickly picked up everything that they wanted the Black Widow to know and was a spy and assassin for them until SHIELD sent Hawkeye to kill me in Georgia. The rest, you know."

Coulson nodded. "And what they gave you?"

"That, I do not know." Natasha shook her head. "There are only notes in here saying how much serum was given, and on what date. They gave it when Natalia turned 12, and nothing reported until last November. Pictures in the files show how slowly she appeared to age. It has been 57 years since the first dose was given, and I look like I'm in my twenties. I heal quickly, and I usually do not get sick. Looking at Natalia's records, catastrophic injuries will kill me, but that is really it. The injuries reported in her files include falling approximately two meters after being shot in the abdomen; three weeks later she was back in the field."

"Modern medicine will probably help, too." Clint leaned forward in his chair. "Like in November; what would've been fatal once only kept you in bed for a couple days."

Natasha just stared at Coulson as he nodded and said something, suddenly not understanding. "I am sorry," she shook her head, "but would you repeat that?"

The two men both stared at her. "Natasha? Are you okay?" Clint carefully asked. "Because you're speaking Russian."

Natasha waved one hand irritably. "I'm fine. I think it was just because I am still tired and have spent so much time reading and thinking in Russian. I wanted to get through all this before focusing on Germany."

"Okay," Clint didn't sound entirely convinced.

"Scram, you two." Coulson was better at hiding his concern, Natasha thought, but she still saw the flash in his eyes. "Natasha, don't be surprised if Medical or somebody from the labs calls you up for a couple tests; they're curious."

"I cannot tell if I am speaking in Russian or in English," Natasha muttered to Clint as they left the office. "I am going to the range, though, where I do not have to speak to anybody."

"English again." Clint nodded. "It was just that one line back there. Mind if I join you? Think that they're switching out handguns again." At Natasha's look, he just nodded. "You're really good at those looks that tell me I'm being stupid, you know that?"

"Of course I am. I am female." With a grin, Natasha sped up.

Natasha was grateful that Clint hadn't returned to school yet, especially when they were in the mess hall and she started to place her order in Russian the day after the incident in Coulson's office. "Can't blame this one on working only in Russian, Nat. What's going on?" Clint steered her to their usual table, for once sitting across from her. "Crazy dreams, you're talking in Russian…" At her blank look, he sighed and repeated himself in Russian. "I am getting worried."

"I do not know." Natasha stared at her plate. "These dreams…they feel like _memories_."

"Huh." Clint idly poked at his lunch. "Weird. Has Medical talked to you yet?"

"Yes. I need to be there this afternoon." Natasha frowned and started eating. "I do not know why they want to look at my blood; they have already taken quite a bit in the past."

The first hint that Natasha had that there may have been a larger problem than simply slipping into Russian occasionally was a week later, when she walked into her room and stopped, staring. "Clint? What is that?"

"What?" Clint looked at where she was pointing. "That's your laptop, Natasha. C'mon, we're heading to Medical."

"_No_." Natasha shook her head savagely. "I just spent all afternoon there, and they want me back tomorrow. I'm not going." Trying to compromise and salvage what had been looking to be a relaxing night, she turned and stared at Clint. "How about this. You get Medical to stop, since I have been in there every day for a week, and I will go to talk with somebody if this continues to happen." When Clint just stared at her, Natasha let some of her stress enter her voice. "_Please_, Clint."

His only response was to pull out his phone. "Coulson. Cancel Nat's mission to Germany. Yeah. She'll explain whenever Medical lets her out of their clutches tomorrow, and I'll take her spot; it shouldn't be that hard to change the guest list and I've seen the mission brief, it's not gender-specific." Slowly putting his phone away, Clint just stared at Natasha. "Okay, Nat. If, by the time I get back, it isn't better then you're seeing somebody about this. Now, since I'm going to be off to Germany in a couple days, let's watch some TV or something."

* * *

"I am falling apart." Natasha curled up in her chair, wondering how the psychiatrist managed to have such comfortable furniture. None of the other chairs on the Helicarrier were even close to comfortable for sitting in for an extended period of time.

"Why?" Doctor Beeks had come out from behind his desk, which Natasha decided that she liked. It felt more personal and private, and she relaxed even more, thankful that Clint had nudged her into asking for help. By the time he'd returned, she was only leaving her quarters to go for more tests from Medical or to eat.

"I am 22, but I am also 71. My name is Natasha Romanoff, or is it Natalia Romanova? I have memories of things that I don't remember doing occurring at random times, and there have even been times that I have forgotten what I was doing or simply did not recognize what I was holding. Lightly resting her chin on her fist, Natasha shook her head. "My mission was cancelled, and Clint went in my place. There have been times that I have forgotten _English_. I am just lucky that Clint and Agent Coulson know enough Russian to understand what I am saying. But I am confused, and do not feel," Natasha couldn't think of any words to describe how she was feeling. "I do not know how to describe it, what I am feeling, actually. Not normal, that is for sure. I have been spending all my time either undergoing testing in Medical or in my room, because I am afraid that something may happen."

"You also have a bit more of an accent today, and I'm not hearing nearly as many contractions as you'd been using before last November. You also don't look as put together as you normally do, and I'm betting that you haven't been sleeping well. Congratulations, Natasha, you're having an identity crisis, maybe even a small existential crisis." Beeks gave Natasha a sympathetic smile. "Combined with what are probably some repressed memories coming out you're not having a very good few months now, are you?"

"No, I am not." Natasha sighed. "Clint and Agent Coulson have been very patient with me, but I do not want to try their patience any longer. I want to _fix_ this."

"So you're willing to put in the work?" Beeks nodded. "Of course you are. I wish some other people around here had your work ethic. We've got a few different options on how to try and get everything settled again, but it'll take a bit no matter what. I just wish you had come to see me earlier, instead of trying to hide from it. There was always the chance that this could have been nipped in the bud; now you're hitting a crisis point."

"It's taken me 71 years to get to this point, what's another one?" Natasha knew she sounded fatalistic, but didn't care.

"Natasha," Beeks warned, "don't start talking like that, or else I'm going to have to get drastic with you, and I don't think that anybody would like that. I routinely threaten to take away Clint's bows or ship him off to disgusting places, a few of the teams get their free time and sports threatened, an unnamed agent gets told that he'll be kicked out of any and all SHIELD facilities and forced to take a vacation, and I can and will come up with similar consequences for you. It's one of the ways that Psych works here, simply because it's the only way to get people to actually _talk_ to us sometimes." Ripping off the top page of the pad of paper sitting in his lap, he tossed the pad and his pen at Natasha. "I want you to make two lists. One is about Natasha Romanoff, the other for Natalia Romanova. Who they are, what they like, dislike, dream about, that sort of thing. I need to go and grab something and look a couple things up. So sit up straight and start writing." Standing up, he paused. "And no, you don't have to worry about multiple personalities; you're you, but you just don't really know _who_ you are right now."

Natasha nodded, staring at the blank paper. She carefully wrote both names down, and then just waited. When Beeks sat down again, she looked at him. "I do not know what to write."

"Nothing at all?"

"No." Natasha folded her hands in her lap. "Because I'm not seeing things from two different points, I'm just…forgetting some things and remembering others."

"Okay then." Natasha felt slightly better about the situation when she saw the frustration on the psychiatrist's face. "Back it up a step, then. Talk me through an average day. What time do you wake up?"

"Around five. I will shower, and meet with Clint for breakfast. Some days I might go to school with him, but there is much less of that now." Natasha tilted her head to the side, thinking. "I will study some, myself. I follow the world news through a few different sources. I spend time in the gym and go to the range each day. Sometimes I will go and talk with Research and Development, since they are working on improving my bracelets. I must also remember to discuss with them an alternative to the uniforms that I have been given, because I cannot move in what most people wear. I might meet with Agent Coulson, if I have questions. Most nights, I will eat dinner with Clint, and then we will spend time together, in one of our rooms while he studies or we watch television, or we may go to the gym and spar, since we are still learning how the other works. I will go to bed early, compared to some."

"How about for fun?"

"Dance," Natasha started, then shook her head. "I enjoy my time in the gym and on the range."

"Not dancing?" Beeks was scribbling notes down. "Because that was your first response."

"I know. I have had memories, dreams, of dancing on stage, but they're some of those that don't feel _real_." Natasha shifted in her chair. "Some things feel more real than others."

"So dancing was probably something that you did more when you were Natalia, then, and less Natasha. Although I've seen you dancing sometimes in the gym. That's a good start. Here." Beeks was holding out a book. Taking it, Natasha saw that it was a child's diary, complete with a lock. "Because you and I both know how nosy people around here can be. Even though it's a cheap lock, it's the thought that counts, and _please_ don't ask why I have a bunch of these stashed away. Your assignment is to write down the memories, and if they feel real or not. I also want you to start writing down how you feel, as well as anything else that strikes your fancy. On that," he pointed at the pad of paper, "I want you to keep on trying to come up with differences between Natasha and Natalia, as well as similarities. I also want you to try and decide which name you'd rather go by; they're similar, but still pretty different. But unfortunately, I've got another emergency coming in, so come and see me in a few days. No later than a week from today, and I want you to bring both of those with whatever you've come up with and discovered." Standing up, he escorted Natasha to the door. "And for right now, go to the range or the gym; just do something physical and not at all mental."

* * *

When she got into the gym and couldn't remember how to work the treadmill, Natasha just shoved her frustration back and went to find a punching bag. Those hadn't changed much in the past century. Clint found her there an hour later. "Hey, Nat. Getting it all fixed?"

"Yes." Natasha nodded from her position slumped against the wall. "Beeks says that I am having an identity crisis."

"At least you know what's going on now." Clint slowly sat down next to her. "And he'll fix it. I also had an idea. Would you like to get out of this place for a couple days? You haven't been to our Florida base yet, so we could just go and play tourist for a weekend?"

"You just want to go to the beach." Natasha leaned against Clint, taking comfort in his solid presence. "And eye the girls."

"Not all that close to the beach, a lot closer to the theme parks actually; the base is near Orlando. C'mon, let's go. I got popcorn, and I bartered a copy of the Princess Bride out of one of the cooks."

Letting Clint pull her up, Natasha shook her head. "How about Star Wars. Even if it may not be my first choice, I have seen it enough that I can do other things and still relax some, and you like it. This is probably very hard on you, as well."

"Past couple of months could've been easier, sure," Clint nodded as the two wandered away from the gym. "But can't blame you. Those were some pretty big revelations that you got, Tasha."

"Please keep calling me that." The words surprised Natasha, and from the look that Clint was giving her, they surprised him too. "I have found that it helps to keep me centered, if that makes any sense."

"A little." Clint nodded. "Oh yeah. Coulson wanted me to ask you if Medical has stopped bothering you yet."

"No, not really. They keep on coming up with 'one more test, Agent Romanoff.'" Natasha shook her head. "They have taken more blood than should be allowed, and are still demanding more."

"Okay. Detour." Clint started leading Natasha towards Medical. "Let's try playing the system, since obviously polite requests haven't worked." Natasha listened to Clint chatter, letting the noise wash over her as she tried to think about her assignment from Beeks. "And now, let's hope that the lady we're looking for is actually here…hey." Clint reached out and grabbed a tech's sleeve. "Looking for Meg. Or Darla would work, too, if either of them are here." As the tech nodded and hurried off, Clint steered Natasha to a chair.

"Clint? You were looking for me?" Natasha looked up as the nurse sat down on Clint's other side. "What's wrong?"

"We're working the system. You've heard what's going on with Tasha?" At Meg's nod, Clint went on. "It's been long enough, and it's gotta stop. How many different tests are there that they want to keep on doing?"

Meg glanced at her watch with a sigh. "Okay. I'm here tomorrow, let me see what I can find out and I'll e-mail you then. But I'm on my way out right now. Is it urgent?"

"Nat?" Clint glanced at Natasha. "Urgent?"

"There is nothing tomorrow that I know of beyond more of them drawing my blood." From the look that Meg was giving her, Natasha suspected that she was speaking in Russian, again. Frustrated, she sighed. She'd gone two days this time without slipping.

"Russian again," Clint confirmed with a nod. "So they aren't dragging you in tomorrow for the whole day. Meg, whenever you get a chance, that'd be awesome. But like I said, it's gotta stop, or there are going to be consequences. Coulson and I have both said to stop, that if they don't have the data now, they're probably never going to get it, but somebody obviously isn't getting the message."

Natasha smiled slightly as Meg reached out to ruffle Clint's hair. Clint just ducked and laughed. "Young man, you try anything in my medical facilities, you won't like what I'll do the next time you're under my control. Let me see what I can find out before you start sneaking in. Now, I'm running late for movie night." She looked at Natasha. "We got ourselves a chick flick on the big screen for once, if you're interested. Emma, I think."

"Thank you, but Clint and I have already made plans." Natasha stood up with a grateful nod. "And thank you for helping."


	19. Chapter 19

Sometimes it really is that easy.

* * *

"I hate you," Natasha announced as she sat down next to Clint. "I figured you would be interested in knowing that."

"Why?" Clint's voice was a mixture of curious and wary. "I don't _think_ I did anything…"

"You didn't. I just decided that you needed to hear something out of the ordinary this morning." Natasha took a sip of her tea, a smile playing around the edges of her lips. "Besides, I slept completely through the night last night. I wanted to celebrate."

Clint burst out laughing. Natasha watched with pleasure as some of the lingering stress that she could see in his shoulders vanished as he bent so low his forehead nearly landed in his breakfast. "Good one, Tasha," he panted. "I needed that laugh."

"I know." Natasha nodded, feeling smug. "Just like I needed a distraction."

"Yeah," Clint nodded. "From what?"

"Besides the obvious? Just wanting to be done with all this and get back to what I'm trained to do." Natasha shrugged. "But I am seeing Beeks again today, so maybe more things will clear up."

"Maybe." Clint took a deep drink of his coffee. "He usually knows what he's doing and I trust him with some of the deeper parts of my brain. Although that's not something that can get back to him; I have to make his life difficult _somehow_."

Natasha hummed. "Do you think he might know that already?"

Clint chuckled. "Probably. He's not stupid. But yeah, had a question for you. I'm heading back to school soon, what are your plans?"

"It depends," Natasha shrugged. "Probably more of the same that I've been doing. Why do you ask?"

"Eh, don't want you to be bored." Clint quickly shoved the rest of his meal into his mouth, washing it down with the remainder of his coffee. "Finish up, then I want to show you something."

Natasha quickly obeyed and walked with Clint to the gym. "I've seen the gym before."

"Wait one," Clint vanished into the men's locker room and Natasha resisted the urge to simply turn around and walk back out. "Here." He held out a MiniDisc player and a set of headphones, as well as a small set of portable sneakers. "You're always coming back to dancing. See if it helps."

Natasha glanced at the clock. "Another time. When it's not so crowded and when I don't have someplace to be." She took the electronics from her partner and adjusted them to be easier to carry. "Thank you, Clint."

* * *

"Writing things down has helped," Natasha reported to Beeks. "I have mostly been able to remember how to use everything, only forgot English twice in the past week, and slept well last night." She smiled and decided to not say anything about what Clint had suggested that morning; it probably didn't have any relevance.

"Good. So, who are you?"

Natasha shook her head. "I have not yet worked that out fully, but I _want_ to be Natasha. Natalia, from the dreams and memories, would not have come here. She was not a nice person."

"No? Why do you say that?"

"She would have subverted Hawkeye. Not just _try_; she would have succeeded." Natasha shuddered slightly at the memory of the emotions in the dreams she'd been having.

"How?" Beeks looked slightly alarmed, which Natasha found odd.

"Drugs, words, threats, sex," Natasha listed. "There were many options available to her through the Red Room. It would not have mattered that the threats would have been empty ones; inject enough hallucinogens and other mind-altering substances into a person, they will believe what you tell them. Also, the Red Room had done much the same to the Winter Soldier – and then, they were working with technology and knowledge from the 1940's. What they have today is much more effective."

"Yes, you'd have first-hand knowledge of that, wouldn't you?" Beeks nodded. "Is there anything positive about her?"

"She was a person who believed that the end justifies the means, so I don't know." Natasha fidgeted with the diary. "She also liked everything that she did."

"And you?"

"I killed children in cold blood. Innocents, whose only crime was to be either related to my target or simply…in the wrong place at the wrong time. Yes, I have many regrets and no desire to repeat the experiences." Natasha looked curiously at the psychiatrist. "Why do you ask?"

"Hmm?" Beeks glanced up from his notes. "Oh, no real reason. I'm just trying to understand the differences."

Natasha eyed him suspiciously. "I do not believe you. Why do you really want to know?" Pushing herself up, she started slowly moving around the room.

"Natasha, please sit down." When Natasha shook her head, Beeks' voice changed from friendly to firm as he repeated himself. "Natasha. Sit. Down. That is an order from a superior officer. Do not make me repeat myself again."

"No." Natasha glanced around the room and wished that the psychiatrist would stop talking and just let her _think_ for a minute.

"Agent Romanoff!" Natasha jumped slightly at the angry bark. "Sit down, _now_!" Quickly sitting back down, Natasha returned Beeks' glare. "Thank you. Now, what was that?"

"I don't know," Natasha hissed, leaning forwards. "Just like every other time that I've found myself staring at somebody and wondered when they were going to pull out a gun and _shoot_ me."

Beeks face suddenly cleared. "Dammit, Natasha, you should have told me that, too. I _cannot_ help you if you are not _completely_ honest with me, understand? And if I can't help you, then you're going to be stuck in a SHIELD base until you die of old age, complete with armed escorts and daily room checks. How much trust did Natalia _or_ you have in the rest of the Red Room?"

"Little," Natasha snorted. "At least in the past few years. Some of the looks that people gave _me_ sometimes suggested that they were wondering if I was going to hurt _them_."

"And," Beeks had his eyes closed. "You've only been here…what, ten months? 11? Something like that. Okay. I think I understand a little bit better now." Opening his eyes and staring at Natasha, he nodded. "This is what I want you to do for the next week. Continue writing down those dreams and memories, and also note when you're not trusting people in positions of power. Maybe there's a pattern there. And I'm going to write myself a note to stick on the front of your file that I need to remember that you're still learning. You, young lady," he pointed at Natasha, "are too good at blending in for _everybody's_ sanity, including your own. Might I suggest trying _not_ to, at least when you're not undercover?"

Natasha just stared at the psychiatrist, falling back on how she'd learned to respond to Coulson's and Clint's sarcastic remarks. "I am not a young lady."

"Mentally, you are. I don't care about physical age unless it's affecting you in a way that would make you end up in my office. All that your physical age is doing is making people excited. How long have you been feeling like this?"

"How long have I been alive?" Natasha shot back, annoyed. Slumping back in her chair, she very carefully stared at Beeks' left foot. It was easier than looking at his face. "In the Red Room, it wasn't bad until about two years ago. It has been slightly worse recently. But it is something that I can deal with, because it comes suddenly and lasts only a few seconds if people leave me alone, and until these past few weeks it had been getting better. The last time I can remember this happening before all…this started was nearly two months ago. The environment here has helped with that. So have my daily activities and, well, everything." Crossing her arms over her chest, she shifted her gaze to over his right shoulder. "And you are right. I have been playing a role in an attempt to fit in better. I don't know how to _not_ play a role, although I feel like I'm learning to be truly myself – whoever that is – when I'm with people that I trust. Clint. Agent Coulson. You. One or two of the nurses when I was stuck in Medical. It might be hard to see, but people expect the Black Widow to be a certain way, and I give them that. So, to quote somebody in the gym yesterday, I am a 'cold, heartless bitch' to most people because I am nothing but a spy and an assassin, and assassins especially must not have any feelings. How else are we able to kill children in cold blood?" She felt a brittle smile emerging. "He was new, obviously. I ignored him."

"But how did that make you feel?"

"Nothing." Natasha shrugged. Accidentally catching the look she was getting, she sighed. "It does hurt a little, even right now. I didn't think it would, but…" she trailed off.

"But now you're letting people in. And when you let people in, either willingly or unwillingly, you're running the risk of getting hurt." Beeks nodded, and Natasha noticed him relaxing, obviously back on familiar ground. "And anybody who works for SHIELD has a way of getting in, simply because they're also members of this organization, and we're all focused on much the same thing. Seem familiar?"

"A little? One of the flight deck crewmembers has taken to asking me if I can give her suggestions on clothing, because she says she likes how I dress. Yesterday, she was telling me about a new catalog she'd received and was asking if I'd be willing to look through it with her and then the other one got mad. Although," Natasha mused, "After he said that several people went and yelled at him for being an ass. And I said yes, whenever we both have a free moment."

"How did you feel about that?"

"Good." The realization suddenly hit Natasha. "It made me feel…welcome, in ways that I haven't felt welcome before. And involved. I liked it."

"Which means?" Beeks idly tapped his pen against his knee. "Think simple."

"If I give it time, I will be able to discover who I am and also be able to completely integrate with everybody here," Natasha started slowly, feeling more confident about her answer when she saw the nod. "So I should just continue with how I have been, and not expect any immediate changes?"

"Just about," Beeks started, only to be interrupted by the door suddenly opening. "Busy, come back later!"

"Sorry, Doc," Clint stepped into the room, looking upset. "Need Natasha. Tasha, it's a little urgent."

When Beeks nodded, Natasha gathered her things and stood up. "Thank you, Doctor Beeks. I will see you next week." Hurrying after Clint, she was keenly aware of the glances that the two of them were getting, ranging from curious to pity. "Clint, what's going on?"

"Not yet." Clint's voice was grim, and he stayed silent until the two of them entered a room that Natasha hadn't seen before.

"Natasha." Coulson nodded from where he was standing next to a man Natasha didn't recognize. "This is Agent Sitwell; he's been handling some of the Red Room intelligence."

"Jasper," the man muttered, staring at video screens. "Nice to meet you and where are the reports from Team Delta? Radar said that they'd call in ten minutes ago!"

"We sent teams in to scout out more of those Red Room locations," Clint started, standing close enough to Natasha that their arms were touching. "And, well, the base where you said they had those kids?" His voice trailed off as he pointed at a screen showing a destroyed building. "It looks like they evacuated everybody and then set charges to go when somebody approached; pure dumb luck let the team get out of there safely. They're looking through the rubble, but," he shrugged helplessly. "No way of knowing if there's any information left. Same with all of the other places you remembered." As Natasha nodded, he added, "However, no bodies have been found. None. So this was obviously planned."

"There is a part of me that isn't surprised," Natasha started with a small shake of her head. Moving forward to get a better look at the screens, she started cursing in as many languages as she could think of. Forcing herself to look at everything logically, she nodded. "Yes, Clint, I know what languages I'm speaking. And I am not surprised because as soon as one base was taken out, let alone two that I only remembered about recently, they would have realized that somebody talked. I can't believe that I didn't think of that."

"Nobody thought of that, obviously, so the blame can be spread around." Coulson had turned and was heading for the door. "Natasha."

"Yes?" Natasha walked over at his gesture.

"Status?"

"I don't know," Natasha started. "Nobody has told me anything. And thank you for stopping Medical and that one lab from thinking up more tests."

"They were repeating them, and I'll make a few phone calls. Are you feeling better, though?"

"Some," Natasha nodded. "I am of the opinion that I'm good for whatever you need me to do, as long as it doesn't require going undercover for more than a day."

"Okay." Coulson had pulled out his phone and was typing a text. Turning, he headed out of the door. "Enjoy Florida."

* * *

"Phil! Come on in." Beeks leaned back from the reference book he was flipping through. "Is this about Natasha?"

"Yes." Coulson nodded, shutting and locking the door behind him. "What's her status?"

"Learning." Beeks' voice was dry. "Slowly. But, can she go into the field? I say yes, unless something happens to suggest otherwise. Granted, I'm going off what she's telling me, but I think we had a bit of a breakthrough before Clint came and dragged her off yesterday. I hope it was important; I was trying to push her towards making some decisions about her life and now that's going to have to wait a bit longer."

"Red Room has vanished," Coulson started, "and we had some questions for her."

"And those questions couldn't have waited 15 minutes? Dammit, Phil, I have _told_ people _time_ and _time_ again that there are some emergencies that warrant cutting a session short, but they usually involve imminent death or destruction, or an emergency that calls _me_ off and again, they usually involve death and destruction. You want your assets to be functioning as more than robots, I need to be able to do _my_ job and right now, I can't. When I have to _pull rank_ to get Natasha to sit down and work with me, that's a problem. When Clint feels he can waltz in here and drag her off, that's a problem. When Clint feels that he can jerk me around in his post-mission sessions and treats them as _games_, that's an even bigger problem. They are _your_ assets, Phil, and so it's up to you to work with me on this." Beeks ran his hand through his hair, looking frustrated. "And yes, I've known from the first time that I set eyes on Clint that he'd be trouble, and I've learned to work with him. I've known from early on that Natasha automatically finds a role to play because she has practically _no_ sense of personal identity which these latest revelations aren't helping any, and I'd _just_ gotten her to admit that when Clint burst in. So now I'm trying to figure out the best way to help her, and again, I can't do it when my sessions are being cut short for damned idiotic reasons! Not to mention, did any of you even _think_ that suddenly finding out that you're not who you thought you were might need some support other than letting her deal with it on her own? I told her that she should've come to see me the _minute_ she started having problems, and I'm telling you that, too. So it's not only on _her_, but it's even more on _you_." He roughly gestured at the book and a pile of papers on his desk, ignoring Coulson's passive look. "_This close_, Phil. And you _need_ to understand part of her mindset right now. She doesn't show it, but she hasn't even been here a year and she's not American, so she doesn't have the same cultural background or social mores, and _that_ affects everything as well. She is learning, but there's only so much that television, hanging around Clint, and general observations can do in such a comparatively short amount of time. You tell me that I'm wrong."

Coulson didn't immediately reply. Lightly tapping one hand against his leg, he nodded. "You're right, as far as I know. But I don't interact with her on a daily basis, so I can't be certain, and I didn't know just how bad the problem had become. Do you want me to get Clint in here? He's probably the one who could help you out the best and the one you should be yelling at, not me."

"No, I wanted to get that out, and hope that you understand my position here. I did have a question, not just a rant, however, and it is about everybody's favorite confused Russian. She's not sure what she wants to think about her past, because from what she's telling me, Natalia Romanova was a cold, heartless, shell of a woman who felt that the ends justified the means. She said that had it been Natalia up against Clint, not only would you'd've been out an operative, he would've been working for _them_." At Coulson's startled look, Beeks nodded. "My reaction, too, and two words: Winter Soldier. Natalia was stubborn and immoral as well, it sounds like, and was a lady with some serious issues. _Natasha_, on the other hand, has discovered some small pleasures in life and has some serious regrets about the things she's pulled, especially when it involves innocent bystanders. Out of the two of them, be glad it was Natasha and not Natalia that Clint was sent after."

"Your question?"

"I think that, if it's all presented logically, Natasha might be willing to incorporate more of Natalia's personality than what she's already shown. Right now, I'm not completely sure that Natasha would be willing to do everything that you might ask her to do, especially in situations where there's a risk of collateral damage. I'm trying to balance out what's best for Natasha with what's best for SHIELD, and it's a pretty fine line I'm walking. Part of me thinks that Natasha needs a chance to get out and see the world as a tourist and not as an operative, but I think that just keeping her around Clint will help with that. Part of me also thinks that SHIELD needs a spy, assassin, or whatever she's doing who really doesn't care about anything but getting the job done. What I need to know is what direction to push her, or if I should even push her at all. It's not up to me to make that decision; I'd just like to know the general opinion and some logical arguments either way. Right now, I _can't_ advocate one way or the other, because both options _will_ end up with Natasha getting hurt."

Frowning, Coulson nodded slightly. "Let me get back to you on that, although you obviously haven't seen the tapes of Natasha in interrogation. And my apologies for what happened earlier; I didn't know that she was in here. Should I have her come back?"

"No." Beeks shook his head. "Just don't do it again. Now go away, I need to look stuff up."

* * *

Clint frowned slightly as he read over the orders he'd been sent from Beeks, countersigned by Coulson. Dialing a number, he calmly pointed out, "I'm not a shrink, I have no clue what you're expecting me to do, and I'm refusing. You've got five minutes to convince me otherwise, because I don't give a flying fuck that you're the deputy head of your department, you're not in my direct chain and frankly, I have zero desire to hurt my partner because what you're asking of me will hurt her. I'll keep quiet about the end goal and what you're doing, but I'm not going to participate."

"Clint," Coulson's voice made Clint roll his eyes. Of course the psychiatrist had pulled in reinforcements; at least it wasn't Fury. "Did you bother to read more than the first paragraph?"

"Almost done." Clint reached for his desk chair and sat down with a glance at his door to make sure it was locked as he put his phone on speaker. "And I stand by my original statement. I'm not a shrink, I don't know how to work this one out, and I'm saying no, I'm not doing it."

"Do you have any suggestions, then?"

Clint shook his head. "Nothing specific . I mean, she's been getting better since I dragged her into see you, doc, and I bet that with a little ongoing support, she'll get everything settled in her own time." Letting out a sigh, he finished reading the orders. "And again, not playing this game. Look. You guys trusted me with her last year, trust me on this one. Let _her_ decide, at her own pace. She's working on it, more than you know."

"Clint…"

"Dammit, sirs, I probably spend _the_ most time with her out of _anybody_ on this boat, which has been pointed out to me repeatedly and by many different people in tones ranging from awe to jealousy. If I can't sleep because of a fucking nightmare or flashback and not a damn word doc, I go see if she's still awake. If she can't sleep, she sees if I'm still awake. So I know what she's doing with that diary you gave her, doc, and that the amount she's been writing in it has gone _down_ over the past couple of days. A lot. So I trust her to do what's right even if she doesn't have the same level of devotion to SHIELD as I do. Will it be right for SHIELD? Can't say. But you know what? It probably will be. Because if she can't pull something off, then I can. If I can't pull something off, she can. And if the two of us, either together or alone, can't pull something off than it's too big for us to handle or somebody should be taking a good look at if it really needs to be pulled off in the first place."

Clint paused, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. The lack of response was encouraging. "The whole innocent bystander bit is a red herring; look underneath it. _She's scared_. These files really threw her for a loop and yeah, she had some issues dealing with that, and the fact that you guys are acting like Natalia Romanova and Natasha Romanoff are two _completely_ different people _isn't_ helping because she doesn't know which way to turn and how to view some of the things she's remembering. She's the same person she's always been, but her attitudes have changed and she repressed one hell of a lot of memories. Why, I don't know. How, I don't know. I'm an operative, not a shrink. But obviously there _was_ a purpose behind it, either in Red Room's reprogramming deal or her own head. And those changing attitudes? That's life. Hell, I'm not the same person I was six years ago, so why should she be the same person she was 50 years ago? And something else. You're saying that she really doesn't know much about American culture; yeah, to a point. She's picked up more than you and she realize, and she's learning more constantly. She probably can pull off being American better than some Americans these days; she just needs a reason to. And that's what it all comes down to. She needs _reasons_ to do all this stuff. She's coming up with reasons on her own, so just support her and let her come to terms with the situation. From what I've seen, another month, two at the outside, and you won't even realize that we all screwed up in handing her a pile of files and saying 'Read. Summarize. Report.' Unfortunately, no way to go back and do it all right." Clint shook his head. "Believe me, I'm kicking myself plenty for leaving all that in her room and not taking it with me."

"That's…surprisingly logical; how did you know all that?"

"I talk to her too, you know…I mean, it _is_ part of being partners, let alone friends. And whatever you use to create white noise sucks; I heard a good part of your conversation with Coulson yesterday. Was going to keep quiet and forget it all, but then you two and whoever else came up with this lovely little idea." As he was talking, Clint was busy throwing school things into his backpack. "And three psych classes and I've almost got a minor which I'm blaming _you_ for, doc, so guess what classes I'm taking this semester. I was looking through my books and saw some stuff. Besides, I do occasionally have _some_ good ideas. Coulson even wrote that in my file once. I saw him _and_ he used pen."

"Why were you even there to listen?" The incredulous tone from Coulson made Clint smile.

"Because they came out with that new vaccine that everybody who's anybody on this boat needs to get? Medical told me that I was getting it yesterday in the arm or they'd find me someplace public and shoot me up in the ass. Think I pissed off the nurses a little too much." Clint chuckled, then quickly sobered up. "But be very, very happy that I'm _not_ going to tell her and that Nat's the responsible one out of the two of us, or else she'd've probably been right there with me." Glancing at his watch, he continued, "Five minutes are more than up, and next time, use your damn brains." He smirked. "And doesn't that feel good, to _finally_ get to be on the other side of that line. And we might not be back by Sunday; I'm thinking about getting us a hotel room near school for a few days. And one other thought. Could all that hypnosis you put her through have helped trigger everything too, doc?"

"Clint," Beeks' voice. "You're being surprisingly logical, and I'll think about that. Have fun, and don't think we're not going to talk about the fact that you've been hiding those PTSD symptoms again."

"Doc, don't start. I'm _fine_. And you know what else? I've already started giving Natasha the sort of help that I should've given her from the beginning." Clint hung up the phone and shouldered his bags as he muttered under his breath. "I really can't believe that people didn't think. And we're supposed to be the good guys? Expect that sort of attitude from HYDRA or A.I.M. Idiots." With a sigh, he went and banged on Natasha's door. "Hey, Tasha?"

* * *

Natasha eyed Clint. "You've been staring at me like I'm about to, to, to go postal, and suddenly you decided that we needed to leave for a week, instead of the weekend. Want to explain why?"

"_Told _them," Clint muttered under his breath, triggering Natasha's curiosity. "Meh," he shrugged. "I needed some distance. You don't have to if you don't want to."

"Told who? What?" When Clint shook his head and set his jaw, Natasha was startled to discover that she was starting to feel upset. "Fine. Be that way."

"Look, Nat, save it for another couple minutes?" Clint took a careful breath and started walking faster. "This isn't a conversation for a hallway and we're almost at a room you can use. I'm plenty pissed about it on a couple different levels and believe me, I'd've told you before we left but I didn't know how to say it or what I was going to say. There're a few hard truths that nobody really realized. Hell," he rubbed the back of his neck, "I only came up with these ideas because I was flipping through one of my textbooks and a picture caught my eye."

"Which textbook?"

"Psych, 'cause that's all that I'm taking this semester…here." Clint opened a door and pulled Natasha inside. Shutting it, he leaned back and stared at Natasha. "Okay. I was given orders that I completely refused because the people who gave them didn't use their damn brains and it's screwing you over, so it's my turn to try and help you out. I'm not going to say who gave those orders; it's irrelevant. Nobody's told me otherwise in the past few hours, so I _think_ that I'm right or at least heading in the right direction. Tell me this one thing. Natalia Romanova. Who is she?"

"She was a Red Room operative?" Natasha didn't understand what Clint was asking.

"You, Nat. She's _you_. Not _was_ you, _is_ you. You've just," Clint spread his hands, "Changed. Matured. Grown up. Evolved. Improved. Your pick. Sleep on it, and I'll explain where I think I'm going tomorrow." Pushing himself off the wall, he nodded. "So yeah. Night, Tasha. Need _anything_, give me a call."

Natasha watched him leave before moving to lock the door. Absentmindedly picking up the remote control, she turned on the TV and stared at the screen as she sat on the bed. "Improved," she murmured quietly. "I like that." Impulse struck her and she looked at the time on her phone. Standing up, she quickly changed and slipped out of the room.

Finding the gym wasn't hard, and Natasha ignored the woman working out on the machines as she headed for the sparring mats. Slipping on the headphones and pressing play on the MiniDisc player Clint had given her as she started a half-remembered set of stretching exercises, Natasha closed her eyes and enjoyed the memories that were emerging. They were nice for once and had overtones of relaxation and pleasure; as the music changed so did the memories and Natasha just let her body follow. She felt lost in the memories of being a professional dancer and for once didn't care how they felt to her or the fact that she was at the center of a flood of memories and feelings; it felt _good_.

Pausing after a few more songs and pulling off the headphones, Natasha became aware of a slow clapping. She felt her face heat up as she glanced towards the sound and spotted Clint sitting on the floor watching her. "Hey, Nat," was all that he said as he stood up. Quickly moving over, Clint grabbed her shoulders and gave them a light squeeze. "Having fun?" Natasha's response was to tightly hug him. "I guess that's a yes, then?"

Not letting Clint go as she nodded, Natasha reveled in the fact that for once since she'd gotten caught by the Red Room she felt fully centered once again. Writing and talking everything out had helped but for some reason _dancing_ made a few things settle in her brain. When combined with the fact that Clint cared about her, Natasha, as a _person_ and not just an asset…"Thank you, Clint." Pulling back slightly and looking at his face, Natasha smiled. "For everything."

"It's what friends are for," Clint lightly said as he extricated himself from her grip and picked up her shoes. "But if you want to go see overpriced American treasures tomorrow, might want to think about sleeping?"

Natasha wrinkled her nose at him and enjoyed his laugh. "You're approaching mother-hen territory again, Barton."

"I'm being logical and you've seen me in mother-hen mode, this isn't even close, Romanoff." Pressing her shoes into her hands, Clint steered Natasha to the door. "G'wan, you. Long day tomorrow."


End file.
